Across  the  Continent 

JbjriAe 

Lincoln  Highway 


THE  UNIVERSITY 


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OF  The 

x^'vusiry  onum,s 


Lincoln  Highway  near  Soda  Springs,  Cal. 


ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 

BY 

THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY 


By 

EFFIE  PRICE  GLADDING 
(Mrs.  Thomas  S.  Gladding) 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  PHOTOGRAPHS 


New  York 
BRENTANO’S 
1915 


Copyright,  1915, 

BY 

Effie  Pbice  Gbadbikc 


Manufactured  by 
Rowland  & Ives 
225  Fifth  Avenue 
New  York 


Dedicated  to 

Lovers  of  the  open  road  and  the  flying  wheel. 


‘‘My  country,  ’tis  of  thee, 
Sweet  land  of  liberty, 

Of  thee  I sing.’’ 


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CONTENTS 


Introduction  . 
Chapter  I 
Chapter  II 
Chapter  III 
Chapter  IV 
Chapter  V 
Chapter  VI 
Chapter  VII  g 
Chapter  VIII 
Chapter  IX 
Chapter  X 
Chapter  XI 
Chapter  XII  . 
Chapter  XIII  . 


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INTRODUCTION 


vu 


A FOREWORD  THAT  IS  A 
RETROSPECT 

Feom  the  Pacific  to  the  Atlantic  by  the  Lincoln 
Highway,  with  California  and  the  Virginias  and 
Maryland  thrown  in  for  good  measure!  What  a 
tour  it  has  been!  As  we  think  back  over  its  miles 
we  recall  the  noble  pines  and  the  towering  Sequoias 
of  the  high  Sierras  of  California;  the  flashing  wa- 
ter-falls of  the  Yosemite,  so  green  as  to  be  called 
Vernal,  so  white  as  to  be  called  Bridal  Veil;  the 
orchards  of  the  prune,  the  cherry,  the  walnut,  the 
olive,  the  almond,  the  fig,  the  orange,  and  the  lemon, 
tilled  like  a garden,  watered  by  the  hoarded  and 
guarded  streams  from  the  everlasting  hills ; and  the 
rich  valleys  of  grain,  rrnming  up  to  the  hillsides  and 
dotted  by  live  oak  trees.  We  recall  miles  of  vine- 
yard under  perfect  cultivation.  We  see  again  the 
blue  of  the  Pacific  and  the  green  of  the  forest  ce- 
dars and  cypresses.  High  Lake  Tahoe  spreads 


VUl 


INTRODUCTION 


before  us,  with  its  southern  fringe  of  emerald 
meadows  and  forest  pines,  and  its  encircling  guard- 
ians, lofty  and  snow-capped.  The  high,  grey-green 
deserts  of  Nevada,  Utah,  and  Wyoming  stretch  be- 
fore us  once  more,  and  we  can  smell  the  clean,  pun- 
gent sage  brush.  We  are  not  lonely,  for  life  is  all 
about  us.  The  California  quail  and  blue- jay,  the 
eagle,  the  ground  squirrel,  the  gopher,  the  coyote, 
the  antelope,  the  rattlesnake,  the  big  ring  snake, 
the  wild  horse  of  the  plains,  the  jack  rabbit,  the 
meadow  lark,  the  killdeer,  the  redwinged  blackbird, 
the  sparrow  hawk,  the  thrush,  the  redheaded  wood- 
pecker, the  grey  dove,  all  have  been  our  friends  and 
companions  as  we  have  gone  along.  We  have  seen 
them  in  their  native  plains  and  forests  and  from 
the  safe  vantage  point  of  the  front  seat  of  oiu* 
motor  car. 

The  lofty  peaks  of  the  Rockies  have  towered  be- 
fore us  in  a long,  unbroken  chain  as  we  have  looked 
at  them  from  the  alfalfa  fields  of  Colorado. 

We  have  seen  the  bread  and  the  cornbread  of  a 
nation  growing  on  the  rolling  prairies  of  Nebraska, 
Iowa,  and  Illinois.  We  have  crossed  the  green, 
pastoral  stretches  of  Indiana  and  Ohio  and  Penn- 
sylvania. The  red  roads  of  Virginia,  winding 


INTRODUCTION 


IX 


among  her  laden  orchards  of  apples  and  peaches 
and  pears  and  her  lush  forests  of  oak  and  pine; 
the  yellow  roads  of  Maryland,  passing  through  her 
fertile  fields  and  winding  in  and  out  among  the 
thousand  water  ways  of  her  coast  line,  all  come  be- 
fore us.  These  are  precious  possessions  of  expe- 
rience and  memory,  the  choice,  intimate  knowledge 
to  which  the  motorist  alone  can  attain. 

The  Friends  of  the  Open  Road  are  ours;  the 
homesteader  in  his  white  canopied  prairie  schooner, 
the  cattleman  on  his  pony,  the  passing  fellow  mo- 
torist, the  ranchman  at  his  farmhouse  door,  the 
country  inn-keeper  hospitably  speeding  us  on  our 
way. 

We  have  a new  conception  of  our  great  country; 
her  vastness,  her  varied  scenery,  her  prosperity, 
her  happiness,  her  boundless  resources,  her  im- 
mense possibilities,  her  kindness  and  hopefulness. 
We  are  bound  to  her  by  a thousand  new  ties  of  ac- 
quaintance, of  association,  and  of  pride. 

The  Lincoln  Highway  is  already  what  it  is  in- 
tended to  be,  a golden  road  of  pleasure  and  use- 
fulness, fitly  dedicated,  and  destined  to  inspire  4 
great  patriotism  and  to  honour  a great  patriot. 
October,  1914. 


ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT  BY 
THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY 


CHAPTER  I 

With  what  a strange  thrill  I look  out  from  my 
stateroom  window,  early  one  April  morning,  and 
catch  a glimpse  of  the  flashing  light  on  one  of  the 
green  promontories  of  the  Golden  Gate!  I dress 
hurriedly  and  run  out  to  find  that  a light  is  flaming 
on  the  other  promontory,  and  that  we  are  entering 
the  great  Bay  of  San  Francisco.  It  has  taken  a 
long  preparation  to  give  me  the  feeling  of  pride  and 
joy  and  wonder  with  which  I come  through  the 
Golden  Gate  to  he  in  my  own  country  once  more. 
A year  of  touring  in  Europe,  nearly  a year  of  travel 
in  the  Orient,  six  months  in  Australia  and  New 
Zealand,  and  after  that  three  months  in  Honolulu; 
all  this  has  given  me  the  backgroimd  for  the  unique 
sensation  with  which  I see  the  two  lights  on  the  long 


12  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


green  promontories  of  the  Golden  Gate  stretching 
out  into  the  Pacific.  Our  ship  moves  steadily  on, 
past  Alcatraz  Island  with  its  long  building  on  its 
rocky  height,  making  it  look  like  a big  Atlantic 
liner  built  high  amidships.  There  are  the  green 
heights  of  the  Presidio  and  the  suburbs  of  the  city 
of  San  Francisco.  On  the  left  in  the  distance  is 
Yerba  Buena  Island.  Far  ahead  of  us,  across  the 
width  of  the  Bay,  are  the  distant  outlines  of  Oak- 
land and  Berkeley.  Later  I am  to  stand  on  the 
hilly  campus  of  the  University  of  California  and 
look  straight  across  the  Bay  through  the  Golden 
Gate  which  we  have  just  entered.  The  tall  build- 
ings of  San  Francisco  begin  to  arise  and  we  are 
landed  in  the  streets  of  the  new  city.  What  a mar- 
vel it  is ! In  the  ten  days  that  we  were  there  I must 
say  that  still  the  wonder  grew  that  a city  could  have 
risen  in  nine  short  years  from  shock,  and  flood,  and 
fire,  to  be  the  solid,  imposing  structure  of  stone  and 
brick,  with  wide  bright  streets  and  impressive 
plazas,  that  San  Francisco  now  is.  In  the  placing 
of  its  statues  at  dramatic  points  on  the  streets  and 
cross  streets,  it  reminds  one  of  a French  city.  The 
new  city  has  fine  open  spaces,  with  streets  stretch- 
ing in  all  directions  from  these  plazas.  There 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  13 


are  many  striking  groups  of  statuary;  among  them 
one  whose  inscriptions  reads: 

DEDICATED  TO  MECHANICS 
BY 

JAMES  MERVYN  DONAHUE  IN  MEMORY  OF  HIS 
FATHER^  PETER  DONAHUE 

The  most  striking  figure  in  this  group,  one  of  five 
workmen  cutting  a hole  through  a sheet  of  steel,  is 
the  figure  of  the  old  man  who  superintends  the 
driving  of  the  bolt  through  the  sheet,  while  four 
stalwart  young  men  throw  their  weight  upon  the 
lever.  Here  is  not  only  stalwart  youth  and  brawn, 
but  also  the  judgment  and  steadiness  of  mature 
age.  The  older  man  has  a good  head,  and  adds  a 
moral  balance  to  the  whole  group.  It  is  a fine  mem- 
orial, not  only  to  the  man  whose  memory  it  hon- 
ours, but  also  to  a host  of  mechanics  and  working 
men  who  do  their  plain  duty  every  day. 

The  most  attractive  thing  about  the  San  Fran- 
cisco residences  is  the  fine  view  of  the  Bay  that 
many  of  them  have.  It  is  the  business  portion  of  the 
city  that  makes  the  striking  impression  upon  the 
stranger.  The  new  Masonic  Building,  with  its 


14  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


massive  cornice,  reminding  one  of  the  Town  Hall 
in  the  old  fighting  town  of  Perugia,  Italy;  the  tow- 
ering buttresses  of  the  Hotel  St.  Francis;  the  no- 
ble masses  of  the  business  blocks;  the  green  rect- 
angle of  the  civic  center  where  the  city’s  functions 
are  held  in  the  open  air ; — all  are  impressive.  In  all 
of  the  California  cities,  one  finds  no  better  dressed 
people  and  no  more  cosmopolitan  people  in  ap- 
pearance than  are  to  be  seen  on  the  San  Francisco 
streets.  It  is  more  nearly  a great  city  in  its  spirit 
and  atmosphere  than  any  other  metropolis  of  the 
State. 

The  drive  through  the  Golden  Gate  Park  is  in- 
teresting because  of  the  blooming  shrubs,  and  the 
lovely  foliage.  I have  never  before  seen  my  favor- 
ite golden  broom  blooming  in  any  part  of  the 
United  States.  Here  it  grows  luxuriantly.  The 
Presidio,  the  site  of  the  military  post,  is  a very 
beautiful  park,  and  is  well  worth  seeing. 

A memorable  excursion  is  one  across  the  Bay  to 
Berkeley,  the  seat  of  the  State  University.  In  the 
past  fifteen  or  twenty  years  the  University  has 
grown  from  a somewhat  motley  collection  of  old 
brick  buildings  into  a noble  assemblage  of  harmo- 
nious stone  buildings  with  long  lines  of  much  archi- 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  15 


tectural  impressiveness.  No  one  can  see  the  Uni- 
versity of  California  without  feeling  that  here  is  a 
great  institution  against  the  background  of  a great 
State.  Two  buildings  which  I particularly  like  are 
the  School  of  Mines,  built  by  Mrs.  Phoebe  Hearst 
as  a memorial  to  her  husband,  and  the  beautiful  li- 
brary. While  the  two  buildings  are  very  different 
in  type,  each  is  noble  and  appropriate  for  its  par- 
ticular uses.  There  are  still  a few  of  the  original 
buildings  standing,  old-fashioned  and  lonely. 
Doubtless  they  will  be  removed  in  time  and  more 
fitting  structures  will  take  their  place.  The  situa- 
tion of  the  campus  is  superb.  It  lies  on  a group  of 
green  foothills,  the  buildings  rising  from  various 
knolls.  You  literally  go  up  to  the  halls  of  learning. 
The  whole  campus  and  the  little  university  city  at 
its  foot  are  dominated  by  an  enormous  white  C out- 
lined on  the  green  hills  far  above.  It  is  a stiff  climb 
to  that  C,  hut  it  is  a favorite  walk  for  ambitious 
students.  They  tell  me  that  occasionally  students 
come  up  from  Leland  Stanford  University  and  in 
teasing  rivalry  paint  over  the  C at  the  dead  hour 
of  night.  The  University  is  rich  in  beautiful  situa- 
tions on  the  campus  for  out-of-door  functions. 
Nothing  could  be  lovelier  than  Strawberry  Canyon, 


16  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


a green  valley  with  immemorial  live  oaks  scattered 
here  and  there;  and  with  clumps  of  shrubbery  be- 
hind whose  greenness  musicians  can  conceal  them- 
selves. We  saw  the  annual  masque  given  by  four 
hundred  University  women  in  honour  of  Mrs, 
Phoebe  Hearst.  I carry  in  memory  a lovely  vision 
of  dancing  wood  nymphs,  of  living  flowers,  of  soft 
twilight  colors,  streaming  across  the  greensward; 
and  of  a particular  wood  nymph,  the  very  spirit  of 
the  Spring,  who  played  about  in  irresponsible  hap- 
piness, all  in  soft  wood  browns  and  pinks  and 
greens.  The  Greek  Theatre  is  a noble  monument  to 
Mr.  William  Randolph  Hearst,  its  donor.  A great 
audience  there  is  a fine  sight;  so  symmetrical  is  the 
amphitheatre  that  it  is  hard  to  realize  how  many 
thousands  of  people  are  sitting  in  the  circle  of  its 
stone  tiers.  Behind  the  topmost  tier  runs  a wall 
covered  with  blooming  roses,  while  back  of  this 
wall  hang  the  drooping  tassels  of  tall  eucalyptus 
trees.  Nothing  could  be  more  fitting  as  a theatre 
for  music  and  for  all  the  noblest  and  most  dignified 
functions  of  a great  institution. 

We  did  not  start  on  our  long  journey,  which  was 
to  mount  up  to  8,600  miles  in  distance,  until  the 
21st  of  April.  Before  that  we  had  a delightful 


BX  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  17 

northern  trip  of  one  hundred  and  twenty  miles  in 
a friend’s  motor  car ; crossing  the  ferry  and  driving 
through  Petaluma,  Sonoma  Valley,  and  Santa 
Rosa,  on  to  Ukiah.  Coming  through  Petaluma  our 
host  told  us  that  we  were  in  “Henville.”  I had  sup- 
posed that  chickens  would  do  well  anywhere  in 
sunny  California,  but  not  so.  There  are  districts 
where  the  fog  gets  into  the  throats  of  the  fowls  and 
kills  them.  Sonoma  County  is  particularly  adapt- 
ed for  chicken  raising  and  there  are  hundreds  of 
successful  chicken  growers  in  this  region. 

As  we  came  through  Santa  Rosa,  we  saw  the 
modest  home  and  the  office  and  gardens  of  Luther 
Burbank. 

Beyond  Santa  Rosa  we  entered  what  our  host 
called  the  Switzerland  of  California.  The  roads 
are  only  ordinary  country  roads  and  very  hilly  at 
that,  but  the  rolling  green  fields  and  glimpses  of 
distant  hills,  with  heavy  forests  here  and  there,  are 
very  beautiful.  I saw  for  the  first  time  in  all  its 
spring  glory  the  glowing  California  poppy.  Great 
masses  of  bright  orange  yellow  were  painted 
against  the  lush  green  of  the  thick  hillside  grass; 
masses  that  fairly  radiated  light.  Alongside  these 
patches  of  flaming  yellow  were  other  patches  of 


18  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


the  deep  blue  lupine.  Some  great  painter  should 
immortalize  the  spring  fields  of  California.  The 
wonderful  greenness  of  the  grass,  the  glowing 
masses  of  yellow,  and  the  deep  gentian  blue  of  the 
lupine  would  rank  with  the  coloring  of  McWhirt- 
er’s  “Tyrol  in  Springtime.”  California  in  the  spring 
is  an  ideal  State  in  which  to  motor.  We  were  sorry 
that  we  could  not  accept  our  host’s  invitation  to 
motor  still  farther  north  into  Lake  County,  a 
county  of  rough  roads  but  fine  scenery. 

Northern  California  has  not  yet  been  developed 
or  exploited  for  tourists  as  has  the  southern  part 
of  the  State,  but  there  is  beautiful  scenery  in 
all  the  counties  north  of  San  Francisco.  As  we 
drove  through  Sonoma  (Moon)  Valley,  we  saw 
the  green  slopes  of  Jack  London’s  ranch,  not  many 
miles  away.  Jack  London’s  recent  book,  “The 
Valley  of  the  Moon,”  describes  the  scenery  of  this 
region. 

Back  of  Vallejo,  reached  by  ferry  from  San 
Francisco,  lies  the  lovely  Napa  Valley,  filled  with 
fruit  ranches.  Its  southern  end  is  narrow,  but  as 
one  drives  farther  north  it  widens  out  into  a broad 
green  expanse  of  orderly  fruit  farms  and  pleasant 


BY,  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY,  19 

homes,  dominated  by  green  hills  on  either  side. 
Sonoma  Valley  and  Napa  Valley  were  the  first  of 
many  enchanting  valleys  which  we  saw  in  Califor- 
nia. As  I look  back  on  ovlt  long  drive,  it  seems  to 
me  now  that  in  California  you  are  always  either 
climbing  a mountain  slope  or  descending  into  a 
green  valley  fianked  by  ranges  of  hills.  Calistoga, 
at  the  northern  end  of  Napa  Valley,  has  interesting 
literary  associations.  It  was  on  the  slope  of  Calis- 
toga Mountain  that  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  spent 
his  honeymoon  and  had  the  experience  of  which  we 
read  to-day  in  “The  Silverado  Squatters.” 

San  Francisco  is  a pleasure-loving  town.  When 
its  people  are  not  eating  in  public  places  to  the 
soimd  of  music,  they  are  likely  to  be  amusing  them- 
selves in  public  places.  The  moving  picture,  the 
theatre,  the  vaudeville,  all  flourish  in  this  big,  gay, 
rushing  city.  The  merchants  of  San  Francisco 
have  shown  great  courage  and  daring  in  the  erec- 
tion of  their  big  buildings  almost  immediately  on 
the  stones  and  ashes  of  the  old  ones.  They  have 
done  all  this  on  borrowed  money  and  loaded  them- 
selves with  heavy  mortgages,  trusting  to  the  future 
and  to  fat  years  to  pay  off  their  indebtedness.  They 


20  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


have  done  an  heroic  work  in  a solid,  impressive 
way,  and  deserve  all  the  business  that  can  possibly 
come  to  them. 

In  San  Francisco  I saw  for  the  first  time  that 
great  California  institution,  the  cafeteria.  They 
pronounce  this  word  in  California  with  the  accent 
on  the  “i.”  To  a traveler  it  seems  as  if  all  San 
Francisco  must  take  its  meals  in  these  well  equipped 
and  perfectly  ordered  restaurants.  You  enter  at 
one  side  of  the  room,  taking  up  napkin,  tray,  knife, 
fork,  and  spoons  from  carefully  arranged  piles  as 
you  pass  along  a narrow  aisle  outlined  by  a railing. 
Next  comes  a counter  steaming  with  trays  of  hot 
food,  and  a second  coimter  follows  with  rows  of 
salads  and  fruits  on  ice.  After  one’s  choice  is  made, 
the  tray  is  inspected  and  the  pay-check  estimated 
and  placed  on  the  tray  by  a cashier.  You  are  then 
free  to  choose  your  table  in  the;  big  room  and  to 
turn  over  your  tray  to  one  of  the  few  waiters  in  at- 
tendance. You  leave  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
room,  passing  a second  cashier  and  paying  the 
amount  of  your  check. 

It  is  a great  game,  this  of  choosing  one’s  food 
by  looking  it  over  as  it  stands  piping  hot  or  ice 
cold,  in  its  appointed  place.  The  attendants  are 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  21 


evidently  accustomed  to  the  weakness  of  human 
nature,  bewildered  by  so  overwhelming  aij  array 
of  viands.  They  keep  calling  out  the  merits  of 
various  dishes  as  the  slow  procession  passes.  “Have 
some  broiled  ham?  It’s  very  nice  this  morning.” 
“Try  the  bacon.  It’s  specially  good  to-day.” 

California  people  are  much  given  to  light  house- 
keeping and  to  taking  their  meals  in  cafeterias  and 
other  restaurants.  Doubtless  this  fashion  may  have 
been  inaugurated  by  the  fact  that  an  ever  increas- 
ing tourist  population,  living  in  hotels  and  lodg- 
ings, must  be  taken  care  of.  But  many  of  the  Cali- 
fornians themselves  are  accustomed  to  reduce  the 
cares  of  house-keeping  to  the  minimum,  and  to  take 
almost  all  their  meals  away  from  their  own  homes. 
The  servant  question  is  a serious  one  in  California; 
and  this  type  of  co-operative  house-keeping  seems 
to  commend  itself  to  hosts  of  people.  We  enjoyed 
it  as  pilgrims  and  travelers,  but  one  would  scarcely 
wish  to  have  so  large  a part  of  the  family  life  hab- 
itually lived  in  public  places. 


22  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


CHAPTER  II 

In  the  heart  of  San  Francisco  stands  a tall,  slen- 
der iron  pillar,  with  a bell  hanging  from  its  down- 
turned  top,  like  a lily  drooping  on  its  stalk.  This 
bell  is  a northern  guide  post  of  the  famous  El 
Camino  Real,  the  old  highway  of  the  Spanish  monks 
and  monasteries  on  which  still  stand  the  ruins  of  the 
ancient  Mission  churches  and  cloisters.  We  pur- 
pose to  drive  south  the  entire  length  of  the  six  hun- 
dred miles  of  El  Camino  Real;  and  then  turning 
northward  to  cross  the  mountain  backbone  of  the 
State  of  California,  and  to  come  up  through  the 
vast  and  fertile  stretches  of  its  western  valleys, 
meeting  the  Lincoln  Highway  at  the  town  of 
Stockton. 

It  is  the  morning  of  the  21st  of  April  when  we 
swing  around  the  graceful  bell,  run  along  Market 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  23 


Street  to  the  Masonic  Temple,  turn  left  into  Mis- 
sion Road,  and  from  Mission  Road  come  again 
into  El  Camino  Real.  We  first  pass  through  the 
usual  fringe  of  cheap  houses,  road  saloons,  and  small 
groceries  that  surrounds  a great  city.  Then  comes 
a group  of  the  city’s  cemeteries,  “Cypress  Grove,” 
“Home  of  Peace,”  and  others.  We  have  a bumpy 
road  in  leaving  the  city,  followed  by  a fine  stretch 
of  smooth,  beautiful  cement  highway.  On  through 
rolling  green  country  we  drive,  and  into  the  suburb 
of  Burlingame  with  its  vine  covered  and  rose  em- 
bowered bungalows,  and  its  houses  of  brown  shin- 
gle and  of  stucco.  The  finer  places  sit  far  back  from 
the  road  in  aristocratic  privacy,  with  big,  grassy 
parks  shaded  by  noble  trees  in  front,  and  with  the 
green  foothills  as  a background. 

At  San  Mateo,  a town  with  the  usual  shaven  and 
parked  immaculateness  of  highclass  suburbs,  we 
have  luncheon  in  a simple  little  pastry  shop.  The 
woman  who  gaily  serves  us  with  excellent  ham 
sandwiches,  cake,  and  coffee,  tells  us  that  she 
is  from  Alsace-Lorraine.  She  and  her  husband 
have  found  their  way  to  California.  From  San 
Mateo  we  drive  to  Palo  Alto,  where  we  spend  some 
time  in  visiting  Leland  Stanford  University.  The 


24  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


University  buildings  of  yellow  sandstone  with  their 
warm  red  tiled  roofs  look  extremely  well  in  the 
southern  sun.  Here  are  no  hills  and  inequalities. 
All  the  buildings  stand  on  perfectly  level  ground, 
the  situation  well  suited  to  the  long  colonnades  and 
the  level  lines  of  the  buildings  themselves.  It  is 
worth  the  traveler’s  while  to  walk  through  the  long 
cloisters  and  to  visit  the  rich  and  beautiful  church, 
whose  restoration  from  the  ravages  of  the  earth- 
quake is  about  completed.  With  its  tiling  and 
mosaic  work,  its  striking  mottoes  upon  the  walls, 
and  its  fine  windows,  it  is  very  like  an  Italian 
church. 

The  town  of  Palo  Alto  is  a pretty  little  settle- 
ment, depending  upon  the  University  for  its  life. 

From  Palo  Alto  we  drive  on  into  the  Santa  Clara 
Valley.  We  are  too  late  to  see  the  fruit  trees  in 
bloom,  a unique  sight;  but  the  valley  stretches  be- 
fore us  in  all  its  exquisite  greenness  and  freshness 
after  the  spring  rains.  Miles  of  fruit  trees,  as  care- 
fully pruned  and  weeded  and  as  orderly  in  every 
detail  as  a garden,  are  on  every  side  of  us.  Prune 
trees,  cherry  trees,  and  apricot  trees;  there  are 
thousands  of  them,  in  a most  beautiful  state  of 
cultivation  and  fruitfulness.  No  Easterner  who 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  25 

has  seen  only  the  somewhat  untidy  and  carelessly 
cultivated  orchards  of  the  East  can  imagine  the  ex- 
quisite order  and  detailed  cultivation  of  the  Cali- 
fornia fruit  orchards.  We  saw  miles  of  such  or- 
chards always  in  the  same  perfect  condition.  Not 
a leaf,  not  a branch,  not  a weed  is  left  in  these  or- 
chards. They  are  plowed  and  harrowed,  sprayed 
and  pruned,  down  to  the  last  corner  of  every  or- 
chard, and  the  last  branch  of  every  tree. 

Through  the  clean  aisles,  between  the  green  rows, 
run  the  channels  for  the  precious  water  that  has 
traveled  from  the  mountains  to  the  plains  to  turn 
tens  of  thousands  of  acres  into  a fair  and  fruitful 
garden. 

The  Santa  Clara  Valley  is  one  of  the  loveliest 
valleys  of  all  California,  and  indeed  of  all  the  world. 
Set  amid  its  orchards  are  tasteful  houses  and 
bungalows,  commodious  and  architecturally  pleas- 
ing; very  diiferent  from  the  box-like  farmhouses 
of  the  Middle  West  and  the  East.  On  either  side 
rise  high  green  hills.  It  is  a picture  of  beauty 
wherever  one  looks. 

At  Santa  Clara,  on  our  way  to  San  Jose,  we  stop 
to  see  the  Santa  Clara  Mission,  just  at  the  edge  of 
the  town.  All  that  remains  of  the  first  Mission  is 


26  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


enclosed  within  a wall,  the  new  church  and  the  flour- 
ishing new  school  standing  next  to  the  enclosure. 

In  the  middle  of  the  valley  is  the  city  of  San 
Jose,  an  active,  bustling  town,  full  of  life  and  busi- 
ness. We  spent  a pleasant  day  at  the  Hotel  Ven- 
dome,  an  old-fashioned  and  delightful  hostel,  sur- 
rounded by  a park  of  fine  trees  and  flowering 
shrubs.  The  Vendome  is  a good  place  in  which  to 
rest  and  bask  in  the  sunshine. 

When  we  next  motor  through  the  Santa  Clara 
Valley,  we  shall  visit  the  New  Almaden  quicksil- 
ver mine,  twelve  miles  from  San  Jose,  and  com- 
manding from  its  slopes  a wondrous  view  of  the 
valley  and  the  Garden  City,  as  San  Jose  is  called. 
And  there  is  the  interesting  trip  from  San  Jose  to 
Mt.  Hamilton  and  the  Lick  Observatory.  One  can 
motor  by  a good  road  to  the  summit  of  the  moun- 
tain, 4,209  feet  above  sea  level,  and  spend  the  night 
at  the  hotel  below  on  the  mountain  slope. 

Leaving  San  Jose,  we  were  more  and  more 
charmed  with  the  valley  as  we  drove  along  through 
orderly  orchards  and  past  tasteful  bungalows.  This 
was  the  California  of  laden  orchards,  of  roses  and 
climbing  geraniums,  of  green  hills  rising  beyond 
the  valleys,  of  which  we  had  read.  As  we  ap- 


THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY^  27 


preached  the  foot  hills  of  the  Santa  Cruz  Mountains 
we  looked  back  and  saw  the  green  valley  with  its 
ranks  of  trees  unrolled  below  us.  Passing  through 
the  little  town  of  Los  Gatos  (The  Cats),  we  began 
to  climb.  As  we  turned  a curve  on  the  winding 
mountain  road,  the  green  expanses  of  the  Happy 
Valley  were  lost  to  view.  We  were  coming  now 
into  the  region  of  immense  pine  trees  and  of  the 
coast  redwoods,  the  Sequoia  sempervirens.  The 
road  was  fair  but  very  winding,  requiring  close  at- 
tention. We  crossed  singing  brooks  and  passed 
wayside  farms  high  in  the  hills,  with  their  little 
patches  of  orchard  and  grain.  We  saw  a big  sign- 
board indicating  the  two-mile  road  to  the  Monte- 
zuma Ranch  School  for  hoys,  and  shortly  after 
were  at  the  top  of  the  grade.  Then  came  the  de- 
scent, the  road  still  winding  in  and  out  among  the 
forests.  At  the  Hotel  de  Redwood,  a simple  hostel 
for  summer  sojourners  from  the  valleys,  we  saw 
a magnificent  clump  of  redwoods,  around  which  had 
been  built  a rustic  seat.  At  the  foot  of  the  hill  we 
turned  left  instead  of  right,  thus  omitting  from  om* 
itinerary  the  town  of  Santa  Cruz  and  the  redwoods 
of  the  Big  Basin.  We  hope  to  see  this  noble  group 
of  trees  sometime  in  the  future.  We  took  lunch- 


28  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


eon  in  a little  cafe  at  Watsonville.  When  I asked 
the  young  German  waiter  for  steamed  clams  he 
said,  “Oh!  you  mean  dem  big  fellers!”  From 
Watsonville,  a bright  little  town,  we  drove  on  to- 
ward Salinas,  making  a detour  which  took  us  around 
the  town  instead  of  directly  through  it.  We  were 
crossing  the  green  plains  of  the  Salinas  Valley,  and 
before  us  rose  the  dark  wooded  heights  of  the  fa- 
mous Monterey  Peninsula.  On  through  the  town 
of  Monterey  to  Pacific  Grove,  a mile  beyond,  and 
we  were  soon  resting  in  an  ideal  bungalow  watched 
over  by  two  tall  pines.  What  a memorable  week 
we  spent  at  “Woodwardia”!  A quarter  of  a mile 
to  our  right  was  the  sea,  whose  sound  came  up  to 
us  plainly  on  still  nights.  Less  than  a quarter  of 
a mile  to  our  left  were  the  forest  and  the  beginning 
of  the  Seventeen  Mile  Drive.  We  took  the  drive 
once  and  again,  paying  the  seventy-five  cent  en- 
trance fee  at  the  gate  of  the  Pacific  Improvement 
Company’s  domain,  thus  becoming  free  to  wander 
about  in  the  great  wooded  territory  of  the  Peninsu- 
la. We  took  luncheon  at  the  picturesque  Pebble 
Lodge,  where  we  had  soup  served  in  shining  abalone 
shells,  and  where  the  electric  lights  were  shaded  by 
these  shells.  We  halted  in  leisurely  fashion  along 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY,  29 

the  Drive  to  climb  over  the  rocks  and  to  scramble 
up  the  high  dunes,  with  their  riot  of  flowering  beach 
peas.  They  were  ideal  places  to  sit  and  dream  with 
the  blue  sea  before  one  and  the  dark  forest  behind. 
We  photographed  the  wind-swept  cypress  trees, 
beaten  and  twisted  into  witchlike  shapes  by  the 
free  Pacific  breezes.  We  watched  the  seals,  lazily 
basking  in  the  sun  on  the  rocks  off  shore.  We  vis- 
ited the  picturesque  village  of  Carmel,  where  ar- 
tists and  writers  consort.  We  selected,  under  the 
spell  of  all  this  beauty,  numerous  sites  for  bunga- 
lows on  exquisite  Carmel  Bay,  where  one  might  en- 
joy forever  and  a day  the  fascination  of  the  sea 
and  the  spell  of  the  pine  forests. 

We  visited  the  Carmel  Mission,  now  standing 
lonely  and  silent  in  the  midst  of  green  fields.  A few 
of  the  old  pear  trees  planted  by  the  Mission  fath- 
ers still  maintain  a gnarled  and  aged  existence  in 
an  orchard  across  the  road  from  the  church.  The 
church  is  a simple  structure  with  an  outside  flight 
of  adobe  steps,  such  as  one  sees  in  Italian  houses, 
running  up  against  the  wall  to  the  bell  tower.  At 
the  left  of  the  altar  are  the  graves  of  three  priests, 
one  being  that  of  Father  Junipero  Serra,  the 
founder  of  many  of  the  Missions,  the  devoted  Span- 


30  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


ish  priest  and  statesman  who  more  than  once  walked 
the  entire  length  of  six  hundred  miles  along  which 
his  Missions  were  planted.  A wall  pulpit  stands  out 
from  the  right  wall  of  the  church.  The  most  touch- 
ing thing  in  the  empty,  dusty,  neglected  little  place 
is  a partly  obliterated  Spanish  inscription  on  the 
wall  of  the  small  room  to  the  left  of  the  main  body 
of  the  church.  It  is  said  to  have  been  painted  there 
by  Father  Serra  himself,  and  reads,  being  trans- 
lated: “Oh,  Heart  of  Jesus,  always  shining  and 
burning,  illumine  mine  with  Thy  warmth  and 
light.” 

A memorable  excursion  was  to  Point  Lobos  be- 
yond Carmel  village,  a rocky  promontory  running 
out  like  a wedge-shaped  plateau  into  the  sea.  One 
approaches  the  sea  across  exquisite  green,  turfy 
spaces,  shaded  by  pine  trees,  to  find  the  point  of 
the  wedge  far  above  the  water,  cut  by  rocky  and 
awesome  gashes  into  which  the  waves  run  with 
a long  rush  and  against  whose  walls  they  boom  con- 
tinually. The  quiet  woods  of  Point  Lobos  do 
not  prepare  one  for  the  magnificence  of  its  out- 
look and  the  wonderful  sight  of  its  great  rocks  ris- 
ing ruggedly  and  precipitously  far  above  the  wa- 
ter. I have  seen  the  entire  three  hundred  miles  of 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  31 


the  French  and  Italian  Riviera,  having  motored  all 
along  that  enchanting  coast;  and  I am  free  to  say 
that  Point  Lobos  is  as  fine  a bit  of  scenery  as  one 
will  find,  not  only  on  the  Pacific  Coast  but  along 
the  Mediterranean  shore. 

Point  Lobos  was  purchased  a number  of  years 
ago  by  a Pacific  Grove  gentleman  who  had  an  eye 
for  its  rare  beauty  and  grandeur,  and  who  has  built 
for  himself  a modest  home  on  a green  meadow  at 
the  entrance  to  the  promontory.  A small  admis- 
sion fee  is  charged  for  the  Point,  largely  to  exclude 
those  who  in  former  days,  when  the  Point  was  free 
to  excursionists,  abused  this  privilege. 

The  owner  has  established  on  a little  cove  a short 
distance  from  his  house  an  abalone  canning  factory. 
Here  the  Japanese  and  other  divers  bring  their  boat 
loads  of  this  delicious  shellfish.  Monterey  Bay  is 
the  home  of  the  abalone  and  it  has  been  so  ruthlessly 
fished  for  that  new  laws  have  had  to  be  made  to 
protect  it.  The  big,  soft  creature,  as  large  as  a tea 
plate,  fastens  itself  to  rocks  and  other  surfaces,  its 
one  shell  protecting  it  from  above.  The  diver  slips 
under  it  his  iron  spatula,  and  by  a quick  and 
skillful  twist  detaches  it  from  its  firm  anchorage. 
Abalone  soup  has  a delicate  flavor,  really  superior 


32  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


to  clam  soup.  Both  the  exterior  and  the  lining  of 
the  abalone  shell  have  most  exquisite  coloring  and 
are  capable  of  a high  polish.  In  the  lining  of  the 
shell  there  is  often  found  the  beautiful  blister  or 
abalone  pearl,  formed  by  the  same  process  as  the 
oyster  pearl,  the  animal  throwing  out  a secretion 
at  the  point  where  it  is  irritated.  The  result  is  a 
blister  on  the  smooth  lining  of  the  shell  which  when 
cut  out  and  polished  shows  beautiful  coloring,  rang- 
ing from  satiny  yellow  to  changing  greens.  We 
spent  an  horn*  in  wandering  about  the  canning  fac- 
tory, looking  over  heaps  of  cast-off  shells,  admiring 
their  beautiful  lining,  and  choosing  some  to  carry 
with  us  across  country  to  a far  distant  home.  That 
many  of  the  shells  had  had  marketable  blisters  was 
shown  by  little  squares  cut  in  the  lining. 

Another  drive  was  that  across  Salinas  Valley, 
through  the  bright  and  prosperous  town  of  Salinas, 
up  the  steep  San  Juan  grade,  where  one  may  eat 
luncheon  on  a green  slope  commanding  a lovely 
view,  and  down  into  the  little  old  town  of  San  Juan, 
where  stands  the  mission  of  San  Juan  Baptista, 
with  its  long  cloisters  still  intact.  Next  to  the  Mis- 
sion is  an  open  square  which  is  said  to  have  been 
the  scene  of  bull  fights  in  the  old  Spanish  days. 


Spanish  Governor’s  House  at  San  Juan.  2.  San  Juan  Batista  Mission, 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  33 


A day  was  spent  in  driving  over  the  Salinas 
road  and  the  Rancho  del  Monte  road,  on  through 
a lovely  valley,  up  over  the  mountain  along  a shelf- 
like road,  and  down  into  Carmel  Valley;  then  along 
another  mountain  road  by  a stream,  and  up  again 
to  the  lush  meadows  of  a private  ranch  twelve  hun- 
dred feet  above  the  sea.  We  left  the  car  at  the  foot 
of  the  hill  and  drove  in  a farm  wagon  to  the  ranch 
house.  We  visited  the  vineyard  on  a sunny  slope 
back  of  the  house,  so  sheltered  that  grapes  grow 
by  the  ton.  We  climbed  into  heavy  Mexican 
saddles,  ornately  stamped,  with  high  pommel 
and  back,  and  rode  astride  sturdy  horses  over 
steep  rounding  hills  through  thick  grass  to  view 
points  where  we  could  look  down  on  Carmel  Valley 
and  off  to  the  silvery  sea.  As  we  retraced  om* 
journey  in  the  afternoon  sunlight,  a bobcat  came 
out  from  the  forest  and  trotted  calmly  ahead  of  us. 
A beautiful  deer  ran  along  the  stream,  his  ears  mov- 
ing with  alarm,  his  eyes  watching  us  with  fear  and 
wonder.  A great  snake  lay  curled  in  the  middle  of 
the  road  and  we  ran  over  him  before  we  really  saw 
him.  He  made  a feeble  attempt  to  coil,  but  the 
heavy  machine  finished  him.  He  was  only  a harm- 
less ring  snake,  whose  good  office  it  is  to  kill  the  go- 


i 

I 


34  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


phers  that  destroy  the  fruit  trees,  so  we  were  sorry 
we  had  ended  his  useful  career.  He  was  the  first 
of  many  snakes  that  we  killed  in  California.  Some- 
times they  lay  straight  across  our  road;  sometimes 
they  were  stretched  out  in  the  ruts  of  the  road  and 
our  wheels  went  over  them  before  we  could  possi- 
bly see  them;  sometimes  they  made  frantic  efforts, 
often  successful,  to  escape  our  machine;  we  always 
gave  them  a fighting  chance. 

It  seemed  that  we  would  never  tear  ourselves 
away  from  the  Monterey  Peninsula.  W e wandered 
through  the  beautiful  grounds  of  the  Hotel  del 
Monte  with  their  ancient  live  oaks.  We  walked 
and  mused  along  the  streets  of  Monterey,  where 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson  once  walked  and  mused. 
We  rejoiced  in  the  sight  of  a lovely  old  Spanish 
house  at  the  head  of  Polk  Street,  carefully  kept 
up  by  its  present  owner.  We  saw  the  Sherman 
Rose  cottage,  the  old  home  of  Sherman’s  Spanish 
love,  and  the  Sherman-Halleck  quarters,  and  the 
old  Hall  of  Records.  We  stopped  to  gaze  at  old 
adobe  dwelling  houses,  some  with  thick  walls  roofed 
with  tile  around  their  yards ; some  with  second  floor 
galleries,  supported  by  plain,  slender  wooden  posts, 
roses  clambering  over  them. 


by:  the  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY]  35 

We  visited  the  San  Carlos  Mission  on  the  edge 
of  the  town.  Unlike  the  deserted  little  church  at 
Carmel,  San  Carlos  is  in  excellent  repair,  perfectly 
kept  and  in  constant  use.  There  they  show  you 
some  of  the  old  vestments  said  to  be  Father  Serra’s 
own.  There  you  may  see  his  silver  mass  cards, 
with  their  Latin  inscriptions  engraved  upon  the 
upright  silver  plate,  reading:  “In  the  beginning 
was  the  Word,”  etc.  The  same  beaten  silver  water 
bucket  which  Father  Serra  used  for  holy  water  is 
to-day  used  by  the  incumbent  priest.  On  the  walls 
are  the  adoring  angels  which  Father  Serra  taught 
the  Indians  to  paint.  One  of  the  special  treasures 
of  the  Mission  is  Father  Serra’s  beautiful  beaten 
gold  chalice,  a consecrated  vessel  touched  only  by 
the  priests.  Back  of  the  church  is  kept  as  a pre- 
cious possession  the  stump  of  the  old  oak  tree  un- 
der which  Father  Serra  celebrated  his  first  mass 
and  took  possession  of  Cahfornia  in  the  name  of 
Spain.  The  spot  where  the  oak  tree  stood,  on  the 
highway  between  Monterey  and  Pacific  Grove,  is 
marked  by  a modest  stone  just  below  Presidio  Hill. 

We  browsed  about  the  curio  and  gift  shops  of 
Monterey,  and  the  “Lame  Duck’s  Exchange”  of 
Pacific  Grove.  We  saw  Asilomar  (Retreat-by-the- 


36 


ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


Sea),  the  fine  conference  grounds  of  the  Young 
Women’s  Christian  Associations  of  the  Pacific 
Coast,  with  its  commodious  assembly  and  living 
halls.  We  learned  the  delicious  flavor,  on  many 
picnics,  of  the  California  ripe  olive.  One  might  be 
dubious  about  the  satisfying  quality  of  Omar  Khay- 
yam’s bottle  of  wine  and  loaf  of  bread  “underneath 
the  bough.”  But  with  the  loaf  of  bread  and  plenty 
of  California  olives  one  could  be  perfectly  content. 
I could  have  a feast  of  Lucullus  any  day  in  Cal- 
ifornia on  abalone  soup,  with  its  delicate  sea  flavor, 
bread,  and  olives. 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  37 


CHAPTER  III 

Ah  well!  one  cannot  stay  forever  on  the  Mon- 
terey Peninsula  to  hear  the  sighing  of  the  wind  in 
the  pines  and  the  lapping  of  the  waves  on  the 
shore.  One  cannot  take  the  Seventeen  Mile  Drive 
day  after  day  to  see  the  wind-twisted  cypresses,  to 
come  upon  the  lovely  curve  of  Carmel  Bay,  and  to 
look  down  from  “the  high  drive”  upon  the  Bay  and 
town  of  Monterey  far  below,  for  all  the  world  like  a 
Riviera  scene.  Once  more  we  turn  our  faces 
southward  and  drive  through  the  broad  streets  of 
Pacific  Grove  along  the  mile  of  coast  road  to  Mon- 
terey, and  from  Monterey  into  the  country  where 
masses  of  lupine  paint  the  hills  blue  on  the  right, 
and  live  oaks  dot  the  green  valley  stretches  on  the 
left.  Coming  into  Salinas  Valley  we  drive  through 
hundreds  of  acres  of  level  beet  fields,  south  of  the 


38  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


town  of  Salinas.  We  meet  a redheaded,  shock- 
bearded  man  with  his  sun-hat  tied  on,  walking 
alongside  a rickety  moving-wagon  drawn  by  two 
poor  horses.  He  responds  most  cheerfully  to  our 
question  concerning  directions.  As  we  pass  his 
wagon  a big  family  of  little  children  crane  their 
young  necks  to  see  us.  The  mother  in  their  midst, 
a thin,  shabby  looking  woman,  holds  up  her  tiny 
baby  for  me  to  see  as  I look  back,  and  I wave  con- 
gratulations in  response.  Later,  near  Santa  Maria, 
we  pass  another  moving  party  eating  supper.  They 
are  prosperous  looking  people,  very  different  from 
the  forlorn,  toihng  little  party  outside  of  Salinas. 
They  are  comfortably  encamped  in  a grassy  spot, 
and  the  woman  waves  to  me  with  a big  loaf  of  bread 
in  one  hand  and  her  bread  knife  in  the  other.  I 
wave  with  equal  heartiness  to  her.  This  is  part  of 
the  charm  of  the  open  road,  these  salutations  and 
this  jolly  passing  exchange  of  sympathy,  not  be- 
tween two  ships  that  pass  in  the  night,  but  between 
two  parties  who  enjoy  the  air  and  the  open,  and 
who  are  one  in  gypsy  spirit.  It  all  belongs  in  the 
happy  day. 

Salinas  Valley  is  very  different  from  the  lovely 
valleys  which  we  have  thus  far  seen.  Sonoma  Val- 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  39 


ley  is  a rolling,  irregular  valley,  part  grain  fields, 
part  rough,  hilly  pasturage.  Napa  Valley,  narrow 
at  the  south,  wide  toward  the  north,  with  orchards 
and  pleasant  homes,  breathes  of  order  and  shut-in 
prosperity.  Santa  Clara  Valley  is  a Napa  Valley 
on  a grander  scale.  Its  surrounding  hiUs  are  higher, 
its  spaces  are  wider.  Sahnas  Valley  is  a grain- 
growing valley,  its  fields  of  grain  stretching  away 
up  into  the  foothills.  As  we  proceed  south  we 
observe  that  the  fields  encroach  more  and  more 
upon  the  hills,  their  rich  greenness  running  quite 
far  up  on  the  hill  slopes.  The  line  of  demarcation 
between  the  growing  grain  and  the  rough  pasture 
slopes  is  as  clean  as  if  drawn  by  a pencil.  It  is 
here  in  Salinas  Valley  that  we  first  notice  the  park- 
hke  appearance  of  many  green  stretches  of  field 
with  live  oaks  growing  here  and  there.  It  would 
almost  seem  that  the  oaks  had  been  planted  with  a 
view  to  park  effects,  instead  of  being  part  of  the 
original  forest  which  had  been  cut  down  to  make 
way  for  the  grain  fields.  We  pass  through  the  little 
town  of  Soledad  (Soltitude)  near  which  are  the 
poor  ruins  of  the  Mission  of  Our  Lady  of  Soledad. 
We  judge  that  Soledad  must  have  a cosmopolitan 
population  when  we  read  such  names  as  Sneible, 


40  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


Tavernetti,  and  Espinosa  on  the  town’s  signs.  Here 
and  there  we  see  where  the  Salinas  River  has  eaten 
great  pieces  out  of  its  banks,  during  the  spring 
freshets.  We  had  seen  the  same  thing  in  Carmel 
Valley,  where  a man  lost  a large  piece  of  his  orchard 
by  its  falling  bodily  into  the  raging  Carmel  river. 
The  streams  of  California  are  not  like  the  streams 
of  New  England,  clear  and  deep  with  winey  brown 
depths.  They  are  shallow  streams  with  earth  banks, 
but  in  the  time  of  the  spring  rains  they  become 
wild  torrents.  Late  in  the  afternoon  we  pass  King 
City  on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  river,  glorified  by 
the  afternoon  sunshine.  It  looks  hke  a picture 
town,  its  buildings  taking  on  castle-like  propor- 
tions from  a distance.  We  then  come  over  the  Jolon 
Grade,  and  descend  through  a little  wooded  valley 
that  has  a particular  charm.  I do  not  know  its 
name,  but  it  cast  a certain  spell  that  lingers  with 
me.  It  is  a narrow  valley  with  stretches  of  thick 
green  grass  under  forest  trees,  and  has  a quality  of 
seclusion  that  I have  not  felt  in  the  wide  acres  of 
grain  in  the  great  Salinas  Valley.  It  is  as  if  the 
forest  had  been  only  partly  cut  away  and  the  ad- 
vance of  the  grazier  and  the  grain  grower  were  but 
partly  accomplished. 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY,  41 


We  come  into  Jolon,  a country  crossroads  hamlet, 
past  “Dutton’s,”  a most  comfortable  and  homelike 
country  hotel,  if  one  may  judge  by  appearances.  I 
am  sorry  not  to  stop  for  the  night.  I am  always 
attracted  to  these  country  inns  when  they  have  hos- 
pitable porches  and  a general  look  of  homely  com- 
fort. I should  be  glad,  too,  to  take  the  six  mile  de- 
tour from  the  main  road  in  order  to  see  the  ruins  of 
the  San  Antonio  Mission.  But  we  have  been  told 
that  the  Mission  is  in  such  a ruined  state,  one  of 
the  thick  walls  having  fallen  in,  that  it  is  as  well 
not  to  see  it. 

Our  next  valley,  even  lovelier  than  the  others,  is 
Lockwood’s  Valley,  a beautiful  stretch  of  grain 
fields.  By  a bend  in  the  road  we  are  driving  east 
with  the  western  sun  setting  behind  us.  High  hills 
form  a background  for  the  green  fields  of  oats  and 
barley.  The  whole  valley  with  its  few  ranch  houses 
and  its  great  fields  breathes  a country  peace.  Look- 
ing back,  I still  regret  that  we  could  not  have  had 
time  to  go  half  a mile  off  the  main  road  and  try 
the  merits  of  the  Lockwood  Inn. 

But  we  drive  on  through  the  valley  over  a slight 
pass  and  come  to  an  adobe  ranch  house  on  the  left, 
sitting  modestly  back  on  a slight  knoll  against  a 


42  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


background  of  bare  hills.  At  the  ranch  gate  is  a 
sign  to  the  effect  that  this  is  Aloha  Ranch  Inn,  and 
that  meals  can  be  had  at  all  hours.  It  is  the  word 
Aloha  that  catches  us.  Surely  someone  must  live 
here  who  knows  the  lovely  Hawaiian  Islands  with 
their  curving  cocoanut  palms,  and  their  emerald 
shores.  So  we  turn  into  the  drive  and  find  a kindly 
farmer,  master  of  his  six  hundred  acres  in  this 
lone  valley,  who  with  his  wife  gives  us  warm  wel- 
come. He  does  indeed  know  Hawaii,  having  lived 
and  worked  on  the  famous  Ewa  sugar  plantation 
for  nearly  twenty  years.  We  have  a homely  but 
appetizing  supper,  and  a dreamless  night’s  sleep  in 
one  of  the  farmhouse  bedrooms.  The  next  morn- 
ing is  gloriously  beautiful,  and  we  drive  on  our  way. 
In  order  to  avoid  fording  the  Salinas  river,  which 
is  very  high,  we  make  our  journey  by  way  of  In- 
dian Valley,  through  hilly,  rather  lonely  country. 
All  along  the  river  there  are  signs  of  the  devasta- 
tion made  by  the  unusual  spring  rains.  The  river 
banks  are  gouged  out  and  the  railroad  bridges  are 
down,  the  rails  being  twisted  into  fantastic  shapes. 
In  passing  San  Miguel  we  stop  to  see  the  Mission, 
which  is  in  a fair  state  of  repair  and  in  constant  use. 
One  of  the  beautiful  toned  old  bells  of  the  Mission 


BX  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  43 


is  hung  in  a framework  outside  the  church,  where 
the  visitor  may  sound  it.  The  new  bell  is  unfortu- 
nately suspended  from  the  top  of  an  immense  iron, 
derrick-like  structure  which  stands  outside  the 
church,  and  is  unsightly.  The  interior  of  the 
church  is  very  fine.  It  is  a lofty  structure,  fifty  feet 
high  and  one  himdred  and  fifty  feet  long,  its  walls 
covered  with  frescoes  in  rich  blues  and  reds,  the 
work  of  the  Indians.  There  are  niches  for  holy 
water  in  the  thick  old  walls  and  a large  niche  which 
was  used  for  the  confessional.  Above  the  altar  is 
painted  the  “All-Seeing  Eye.”  The  heavy  rafters 
of  the  roof  extend  through  the  walls  and  long  wood- 
en pins  are  fitted  through  the  ends  to  bind  the  walls 
together.  Not  a nail  was  used  in  the  entire 
structure. 

We  take  luncheon  at  Paso  Robles  (Pass  of  the 
Oaks),  famed  for  its  healing  waters.  The  hotel  is 
pleasant  and  the  new  bath  house  with  its  handsome 
marble  and  tiling  is  very  fine.  Many  sojourn  here 
for  the  medicinal  uses  of  the  waters.  Between 
Paso  Robles  and  San  Luis  Obispo  we  come 
through  a stretch  of  very  beautiful  country,  part 
open  forest  land,  part  richly  pastoral,  the  prop- 
erty of  the  Atascadero  Company.  The  Atascadero 


44  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


settlement  is  one  of  those  Utopian  plans  for  happi- 
ness and  prosperity  which  bids  fair  to  be  realized. 
The  climate  is  almost  ideal,  the  scenery  is  charming, 
the  country  is  richly  fertile.  They  tell  us  that  peo- 
ple are  pouring  in  from  the  East  and  that  the  colony 
is  growing  constantly.  At  the  north  end  of  the 
Atascadero  territory  we  pass  a handsome  sign 
swinging  over  the  road,  which  reads : “Atascadero 
Colony.  North  End.  Ten  Miles  Long  and  Seven 
Miles  wide.  Welcome.”  As  we  approach  the  south 
end  of  the  ten  mile  stretch  we  come  upon  another 
sign  whose  legend  is:  “Come  again.”  Turning 
back  as  we  pass  under  the  sign  we  see  that  its  re- 
verse legend  is  the  same  as  that  of  the  north  end 
sign,  save  that  it  is  for  the  south  end.  So  whoever 
passes  along  the  main  road  through  Atascadero 
property  is  bound  to  have  the  uplifting  welcome  and 
to  receive,  as  he  passes  on,  the  kindly  farewell.  We 
congratulate  the  Atascadero  colonists  on  the  lovely 
rolling  country  in  whose  midst  they  are  to  dwell  and 
on  the  magnificent  live  oaks  that  dot  their  park-like 
fields.  San  Luis  Obispo  is  quite  a large  town,  but 
the  Mission  of  San  Luis  Obispo  has  been  spoiled 
by  being  incorporated  into  the  new  church  and 
school  plant.  One  catches  only  a glimpse  of  broken 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  45 


cloisters  within  the  school  enclosure.  I stepped 
into  the  church  as  we  drove  by  in  the  late  afternoon, 
and  saw  the  children  coming  in  for  prayer  and  for 
confession.  Little  stubby-toed  boys  tip-toed  in, 
kneeling  awkwardly  but  reverently,  and  crossing 
themselves  with  holy  water ; while  from  the  confes- 
sional came  the  low  murmur  of  some  urchin  making 
his  confession. 

Not  long  after  leaving  San  Luis  Obispo,  near  Ni- 
pomo-by-the-Sea,  I had  the  misfortune  to  lose  my 
leather  letter  case.  We  were  horror  struck  when 
we  found  it  gone  and  turned  about  just  before 
reaching  Santa  Maria  to  retrace  our  steps  across  the 
long  bridge  and  then  across  a wide  stretch  of  dry, 
sandy  river  bed.  The  ravages  of  the  floods  had  torn 
a much  wider  path  for  the  river  than  it  now  used, 
so  that  for  nearly  a mile  we  drove  over  sandy  river 
bottom,  the  river  being  a shrunken  stream.  To  our 
great  joy  we  met  another  motor  car,  and  found  that 
the  three  gentlemen  in  it  had  picked  up  my  bag 
and  were  bringing  it  along  to  Santa  Maria  in  the 
hope  of  finding  the  owner.  What  had  promised  to 
be  a long  and  tiring  search,  involving  the  question- 
ing of  every  passer-by  and  inquiry  at  every  wayside 
house  for  miles,  turned  out  to  be  only  a short  drive. 


46  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 

We  turned  toward  Santa  Maria  and  went  on  our 
way  rejoicing. 

Santa  Maria  is  a large,  prosperous,  attractive 
town.  On  toward  Los  Olivos  the  country  is  like 
some  parts  of  New  England,  attractive  but  lonely. 
We  are  glad  to  reach  in  the  twilight  the  hos- 
pitable lights  of  Mattei’s  Tavern  at  Los  Olivos. 
Mr.  Mattei  is  Swiss  by  birth,  but  has  spent 
many  years  in  California.  He  has  a ranch  whose 
acres  supply  his  unusually  good  table  with  vegeta- 
bles, poultry,  and  flowers.  His  house  is  kept  with 
the  neatness  and  comfort  of  an  excellent  Swiss  inn, 
and  is  a delightful  place  for  a sojourn.  We  are 
sorry  to  come  away  on  the  morning  of  the  first  of 
May.  We  pass  dozens  of  wagons  and  buggies,  the 
people  all  in  holiday  attire,  coming  into  town  for 
the  May-day  celebrations.  Los  Olivos  was  once  an 
olive  growing  valley,  but  grain  growing  has  been 
found  more  profitable.  We  wish  to  see  the  Santa 
Ynez  mission  and  therefore  take  the  route  to  the 
right,  avoiding  the  road  to  Santa  Barbara  by  way 
of  Santa  Ynez  and  the  San  Marcos  Pass.  The 
Santa  Ynez  Mission  has  a situation  of  unusual 
beauty.  It  stands  on  a tableland  with  a circle  of 
mountains  behind  it,  and  at  its  left  a low  green 


BY,  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  47 


valley  stretching  away  into  the  distance.  A Dan- 
ish settlement  of  neat  new  houses  of  modern  type 
faces  the  old  Mission.  The  church  has  been  re- 
stored, and  ten  years  of  loving  care  have  been  be- 
stowed upon  it  by  the  present  priest  and  his  niece. 
The  choice  old  vestments  have  been  mended  with 
extreme  care.  The  ladies  of  the  Spanish  Court  are 
said  to  have  furnished  the  rich  brocades  for  these 
vestments,  which  were  sent  on  from  Spain  and  made 
up  at  the  Mission.  It  is  an  ancient  custom  for  the 
Indians  to  wash  the  handwoven  linen  vestments, 
a custom  they  still  observe.  The  walls  of  Santa 
Ynez  are  about  seven  feet  thick,  and  the  Mission 
was  some  thirteen  years  in  building.  Roses  climb 
over  the  cloisters,  and  the  whole  Mission  is  very 
attractive. 

From  the  Mission  we  drive  over  the  Gaviota 
(Seagull)  Pass,  the  mountain  road  being  rough, 
narrow,  and  very  picturesque.  Fine  old  live  oaks 
and  white  oaks  grow  on  the  rough  hillsides.  As  one 
approaches  the  little  seaside  station  of  Gaviota  the 
rocks  are  very  grand.  Suddenly  we  come  upon  the 
sea,  and  the  blue  waters  that  are  part  of  the  charm 
of  Santa  Barbara  stretch  before  us.  The  scenery 
from  Gaviota  to  Santa  Barbara  is  one  of  the  finest 


48  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


stretches  along  the  entire  coast.  Three  misty  is- 
lands are  to  be  seen  off  the  coast,  set  in  an  azure 
sea.  They  belong  to  the  Santa  Barbara  group; 
Anacapa,  Santa  Cruz,  Santa  Rosa,  and  San  Mi- 
guel. As  one  approaches  Santa  Barbara  one  sees 
farmhouses  in  the  midst  of  lovely  farming  country 
on  points  jutting  into  the  sea  and  commanding  ex- 
quisite views  of  the  water.  The  last  ten  miles  be- 
fore reaching  Santa  Barbara  we  drive  through  an 
unbroken  stretch  of  English  walnut  orchards,  the 
trees  carefully  pruned  and  in  admirable  condition. 
We  have  come  through  the  rolling  pastures  and 
grain  fields  of  Sonoma  Valley,  through  the  fruit 
orchards  of  Napa  Valley  and  Santa  Clara  Valley, 
through  the  unbroken  grain  fields  of  Salinas  Valley 
and  Lockwood’s  Valley,  and  through  the  diversi- 
fied cultivation  of  the  valley  around  Los  Olivos; 
and  now  we  are  driving  into  famous  Santa  Barbara 
through  ten  miles  of  walnut  groves,  garden-like  in 
their  cultivation. 

Reaching  Santa  Barbara,  we  have  tea  at  the  Stu- 
dio Tea  Room,  which  utilizes  for  its  purpose  a fa- 
mous old  Spanish  residence.  We  then  establish 
ourselves  at  The  Upham,  and  a very  pleasant  hotel 
we  find  it.  For  those  who  wish  a larger  and  more 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  49 


fashionable  inn  there  are  the  beautiful  Arlington 
Hotel,  with  its  fascinating,  tiny  models  of  the  his- 
toric caravels  San  Salvador  and  Vittoria  upon  the 
gate  posts  at  its  entrance;  and  the  Potter,  by  the 
sea.  Santa  Barbara  lies  in  a pocket  valley  with 
the  red  brown  Santa  Ynez  mountains  rising  behind 
it  and  the  sea  in  front  of  it.  Some  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful residences  are  at  the  north  of  the  town  in  the 
foothills.  Italian  sunshine,  Italian  softness  of  cli- 
mate, the  enchanting  colors  of  the  hills,  the  blue  of 
the  sea,  charming  drives  and  walks,  all  these  are  to 
be  had  at  Santa  Barbara;  and  there  is  the  Mission 
with  its  old  church  and  the  dignified  priests  of  its 
brotherhood.  Fine  trees  stand  in  the  beautiful  en- 
closed garden  of  the  Mission,  where  five  thousand 
Indians  are  buried. 

Four  miles  south  of  Santa  Barbara  are  Mon- 
tecito  Valley  and  the  delightful  Miramar  Hotel 
on  the  sea.  A very  pleasant  suburban  colony  is 
grouped  around  the  hotel.  The  hotel  itself  has 
within  its  grounds  its  own  rose-embowered  cottages. 
One  may  live  in  a bungalow  and  have  one’s  own  fire- 
side, one’s  own  sitting  room  and  bed  chamber,  one’s 
own  rose-covered  porch,  one’s  own  home  life,  and 
go  into  the  hotel  only  for  meals  and  for  sociability’s 


50  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 

sake.  It  is  an  ideal  winter  life  for  those  who  wish 
all  the  orderly,  luxurious  comfort  of  a well  man- 
aged inn,  together  with  the  privacy  of  home  life  in 
a rose  cottage.  We  drove  through  lovely  little 
Montecito  Valley,  catching  glimpses  of  fine  houses 
rising  against  a picturesque  mountain  background, 
some  in  the  Mission  style  of  architecture,  some  in 
Italian  and  some  in  Spanish  style.  The  lawns  of 
one  estate  were  surrounded  by  long  hedges  of  pink 
roses.  We  turned  south  through  Toro  Valley 
where  I recall  a most  beautiful  hillside  olive  or- 
chard, the  trees  being  planted  on  the  slope  sheltered 
from  the  sea  and  facing  the  mountains.  They  were 
as  beautiful  in  their  fresh  grey-greenness  as  any 
olive  orchard  that  we  saw  in  all  California.  Leav- 
ing Miramar  we  drove  on  along  the  coast  to  Ven- 
tura, the  road  running  by  the  sea  and  in  some 
places  on  long  platforms  built  out  over  the  water. 
At  Ventura  we  turned  west  and  came  to  Nordhoff, 
the  bridge  being  down  on  the  Casitas  Pass.  We 
had  a somewhat  lonely  evening  drive  through  a 
green  fruited  valley  from  Ventura  to  Nordhoff, 
and  reached  our  hostel,  the  Pierpont  Cottages,  a 
few  miles  from  Nordhoff,  late  in  the  evening.  We 
were  more  than  ready  for  supper  and  for  rest  in  a 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  51 


lovely  private  cottage,  through  whose  open  case- 
ment long  sprays  of  pink  roses  climbed  in.  The 
morning  revealed  to  us  the  rare  beauties  of  the  se- 
cluded Ojai  Valley,  in  whose  foothills  stand  the 
Pierpont  Inn  and  cottages,  1000  feet  above  sea 
level. 

It  would  be  hard  to  exaggerate  the  charm  and 
beauty  of  the  Ojai  Valley  for  those  who  like  its 
type  of  scenery.  A magnificent  wall  of  stone  moun- 
tain, whose  colors  run  into  greys,  pinks,  lavenders, 
and  yellows,  forms  the  eastern  boundary  of  the 
valley.  On  its  level  floor  are  luxuriant  orchards. 
Here  in  warm  protection  grow  the  fig,  the  olive, 
the  orange,  and  the  lemon.  The  beautiful  Matilija 
poppies  grow  in  great  luxuriance  here,  their  tall 
grey-green  stalks  and  white  crape  petals  with  gol- 
den hearts  being  very  effective.  I had  seen  the 
Matilija  poppies  for  the  first  time  growing  in  the 
gardens  of  Santa  Barbara.  I now  saw  them  grow- 
ing wild  on  the  slopes  of  the  Ojai  Valley  foothills. 
Above  the  Pierpont  Cottages  are  the  buildings  of  a 
famous  boys’  school  high  in  the  foothills.  For  those 
who  love  warmth  and  glowing  color,  long  tramps 
and  long  horseback  rides  into  the  mountain  defiles 
above  the  valley,  the  Ojai  is  an  ideal  place  to  spend 


52  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


a charmed  winter.  We  came  away  in  the  morning 
light,  driving  across  the  valley  to  the  main  road 
and  ascending  a steep  hill  to  the  Upper  Ojai  road. 
A glorious  view  of  the  whole  valley  unrolled  before 
us,  level  as  a floor,  with  its  rich  masses  of  fig  trees 
and  its  shining  orange  and  lemon  trees,  their  green 
broken  here  and  there  by  trim  houses.  Higher  up 
were  the  cottages  of  the  Pierpont  Inn,  and  higher 
still  the  big  building  of  the  school,  all  over-topped 
by  the  great  masses  of  the  mountains  behind.  I 
felt  that  I should  like  to  build  a bungalow  on  the 
spot  and  live  and  die  there. 

We  come  on  by  a very  rough,  narrow,  bumpy, 
and  precipitous  mountain  road,  past  the  summer 
cottages  of  Sulphur  Springs  into  the  Santa  Paula 
Valley.  We  pass  people  planting  young  orchards 
of  lemons  and  oranges,  and  we  come  through  de- 
files, the  bare,  rugged  hills  rising  above  us  on  both 
sides.  Sometimes  these  hills  are  clay-colored. 
Sometimes  they  are  painted  a delicate  lavender  by 
whole  hillsides  of  blooming  sage;  sometimes  sage 
not  yet  in  bloom  covers  the  hills  with  a delicate 
grey-green  mantle.  Other  hillsides  are  a bright 
yellow  from  a yellow,  string-like  plant  that  nets 
itself  in  great  masses  over  the  entire  slope.  On  the 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  53 


whole  the  country  until  we  reach  Santa  Paula  is 
rather  bare.  At  Santa  Paula  there  is  a very  pleas- 
ant inn.  It  was  at  Santa  Paula  that  I saw  a school- 
house  enclosure  surrounded  by  a hedge-like  row  of 
trees,  every  tree  a blooming  mass  of  glorious  yellow. 

At  Sespe  we  passed  a very  prosperous  lemon 
and  orange  orchard  of  immense  size  where  they 
were  planting  fresh  orchards  of  slender  young 
trees.  Before  we  reached  Saugus  we  had  to  ford 
the  Santa  Clara  River,  the  bridge  being  down.  We 
stuck  in  the  soft  sand  in  mid-river  and  T.  was 
obliged  to  wade  through  the  shallow  water  to  the 
shore  behind  us,  which  happened  to  be  nearest,  to  go 
in  search  of  a countryman  and  horses.  In  the 
meantime  I took  off  my  boots  and  stockings  and 
waded  across  to  the  far  side  of  the  stream.  There 
I was  just  lacing  my  boots  when  a young  gentle- 
man appeared  driving  a small  car.  He  debated 
as  to  the  risk  of  driving  across  stream,  but  decided 
to  try  it.  Driving  slowly  he  succeeded  in  getting 
through  and  turned  to  wave  his  hat  in  triumph. 
I waved  back  and  he  pushed  on  his  way.  Soon  T. 
appeared  with  a countryman  driving  two  stout 
horses.  They  quickly  pulled  the  car  across  and 
their  master  received  a dollar  for  his  services. 


54  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


After  an  indifferent  lunch  at  the  Saugus  railway 
station  we  went  on  over  the  fine  Newhall  grade, 
through  Fernando  and  the  great  San  Fernando 
Valley,  through  the  brand  new  town  of  Van  Nuys, 
and  the  settlement  of  Lankershim  and  the  hand- 
some suburb  of  Hollywood  into  Los  Angeles.  The 
San  Fernando  Valley,  a wide  plain  with  mountains 
in  the  far  distance,  has  been  turned  by  the  magic  of 
water  from  a vast,  scrubby  desert  into  a fruitful  re- 
gion, rapidly  becoming  populous.  The  San  Fer- 
nando Mission  Company  has  placed  in  front  of  the 
old  San  Fernando  Mission  on  the  broad  highway 
which  now  runs  past  the  Mission  a charming  flower 
garden.  The  bright  flowers  blaze  out  in  the  after- 
noon sun  against  a background  of  fragments  of 
grey  adobe  wall.  The  Mission  itself  has  but  little 
to  show.  A caretaker  lives  in  the  fragment  of  the 
old  monastery  and  shows  one  through  the  few  de- 
serted and  dingy  rooms.  The  finest  thing  in  San 
Fernando  Valley  is  the  new  boulevard  which  sweeps 
through  the  valley  to  Los  Angeles  and  is  known 
as  the  $500,000  boulevard.  It  is  largely  due  to  the 
generalship  of  Mr.  Whitely,  who  is  a Napoleon  of 
real  estate.  Through  the  middle  of  the  boulevard 


Harbor  of  Avalon,  Catalina  Island.  2.  and  3.  San  Fernando  Mission. 


OF  I'FlE 

Of  famo.= 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  55 


runs  the  electric  car  line.  On  each  side  of  the  car 
line  is  a border  of  rose  hushes  of  different  varieties. 
Outside  of  this  border  are  two  fine  roads,  one  on 
either  side;  and  again  outside  of  these  roads  is  a 
wonderful  border  planted  in  the  following  order: 
first,  a line  of  rose  bushes,  and  second,  a line  of  In- 
dian deodars,  first  cousins  to  the  Lebanon  cedars, 
these  deodars  alternating  in  their  planting  with  a 
flowering  shrub;  third,  comes  a line  of  Austrian 
and  other  varieties  of  pines;  fourth,  is  planted  a 
row  of  palm  trees.  At  present  this  planting  is  in 
its  early  stages,  but  when  roses,  shrubs,  and  ever- 
greens are  larger,  as  they  will  soon  be  under  the 
bright  California  sun,  the  effect  will  be  very  rich 
and  beautiful.  Van  Nuys  has  a fine  new  school- 
house,  and  shining  new  dwellings  of  white  glazed 
brick,  built  in  the  Italian  and  the  Spanish  style. 

California  specializes  in  schooUiouses  and  street 
lamps.  In  the  newest  and  in  some  instances  in  the 
most  isolated  settlements,  you  will  find  beautiful 
schoolhouses,  an  earnest  of  the  children  and  the 
education  that  are  to  be;  and  all  over  California  in 
country  villages  one  finds  the  main  streets  lined 
with  ornate  lamp  standards  surmovmted  by  hand- 


56  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


some  globes.  They  give  an  air  even  to  sordid  little 
streets  lined  by  saloons,  country  groceries,  and  dry- 
goods  emporiums. 

California  is  not  afraid  to  spend  money  for  edu- 
cation. Her  school  buildings,  many  of  them  in  the 
Mission  style,  would  make  Eastern  towns  of  the 
same  size  gasp  with  amazement. 

Hollywood  with  its  lovely  villas  is  a popular  and 
beautiful  suburb  of  Los  Angeles,  and  seems  almost 
like  a second  Los  Angeles  save  that  it  is  among  the 
hills  instead  of  on  the  plain. 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY,  57 


CHAPTER  IVi 

Los  Angeles  is  unique.  Where  will  you  find 
another  city  like  it,  so  open,  so  bright,  with  such 
handsome  apartment  houses,  designed  for  light 
housekeeping,  such  multitudes  of  cafeterias? 
Where  will  you  find  such  a green  square  of  civic 
center  with  people  sitting  quietly  about,  enjoying 
the  sunshine,  the  splashing  of  the  fountain,  the 
tameness  of  the  starlings?  These  are  the  happy, 
not  the  unhappy,  unemployed.  They  have  come 
from  far  and  near  to  live  simply  in  light  house- 
keeping apartments,  to  bask  in  the  sunshine,  many 
of  them  to  enjoy  a sunny  old  age  on  a modest  but 
comfortable  income.  The  last  census,  they  tell  us, 
shows  that  80  per  cent  of  the  Los  Angeles  people 
are  from  the  State  of  Iowa.  But  from  all  the. Mid- 
dle West  they  have  fled  from  the  cold  winters  to 


58  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


the  warmth  of  this  big  city  which  really  seems  to  be 
not  a city  at  all,  but  an  immense  collection  of  open 
parks,  bright  houses,  and  handsome  streets.  Thou- 
sands of  people  are  pouring  into  Los  Angeles  every 
year.  Great  fields  around  the  city  have  been  in- 
cluded within  the  city  limits,  fine  streets  with  ornate 
lamps  and  copings  have  been  cut  through  them, 
handsome  stucco  and  shingle  villas  have  been 
erected.  These  are  homes  of  well-to-do  people  who 
mean  to  spend  at  least  part  of  each  year,  if  not  the 
rest  of  their  lives,  in  Los  Angeles.  It  is  all  a puz- 
zle, this  phenomenal  growth  of  the  city.  It  is  not 
wholly  due  to  business,  for  the  most  prosperous 
business  man  in  Los  Angeles  is  probably  the  real 
estate  dealer,  who  has  plotted  the  fields,  added  new 
streets,  and  sold  at  ever-increasing  prices  the  villa 
and  home  sites.  The  merchant  and  the  provision 
dealer  do  well,  but  after  all,  their  territory  is  the  city 
itself.  There  is  no  great  hinterland  with  which  to 
deal.  It  is  not  due  to  manufacturing  interests,  for 
as  yet  these  have  been  but  little  developed.  It  must 
be,  as  a lady  said  to  me,  “the  sale  of  the  climate,”  an 
unfailing  stock  of  sunshine  that  has  made  Los  An- 
geles the  happy,  growing,  extremely  prosperous 
city  that  it  is. 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  59 


One  may  choose  from  many  hotels  one’s  hostel, 
or  one  may  live  in  a beautiful  apartment,  cook  one’s 
own  breakfast  of  bacon  and  eggs,  and  sally  forth  to 
any  one  of  a dozen  cafeterias  for  luncheon  and  din- 
ner. We  found  the  Hotel  Leighton  on  West  Lake 
Park  eminently  satisfactory ; a spacious,  quiet,  well 
managed  establishment  with  the  spaces  of  the  park 
before  it  and  the  cars  within  three  minutes’  walk. 

From  Los  Angeles  we  drove  through  the  San 
Gabriel  Valley,  dominated  by  snow  covered  Mount 
San  Antonio,  to  Long  Beach.  The  valley  is  a 
panorama  of  new  suburban  towns,  market  gardens, 
and  walnut  groves.  Long  Beach  is  a mixture  of 
Coney  Island,  Atlantic  City,  and  a solid,  substan- 
tial inland  town.  Its  public  buildings  are  very  fine, 
its  churches  being  particularly  handsome.  Its  big 
Hotel  Virginia  reminds  one  of  the  handsome  hotels 
along  the  boardwalk  at  Atlantic  City,  and  its  long 
arcade  of  amusement  halls,  cheap  jewelry  shops, 
and  other  booths  for  seaside  trinkets  is  like  Coney 
Island.  This  stretch  of  amusement  halls  and  shops 
lies  along  the  seashore  at  a lower  level  than  the  city 
proper,  and  does  not  impart  its  character  to  the  rest 
of  the  town.  It  was  at  Long  Beach  that  I first 
heard  a night-singing  bird,  somewhat  like  the  night- 


60  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


ingale.  The  little  creature  sang  gaily  all  night  long 
in  the  park  opposite  our  hotel.  Long  Beach  and 
San  Pedro  are  both  sailing  points  for  Santa  Cata- 
lina Island,  twenty-five  miles  away,  whose  purple- 
grey  heights  can  be  dimly  seen  across  the  water. 
The  trip  to  Catalina  is  in  rather  small  boats,  and 
is  likely  to  be  somewhat  trying;  but  the  trials  of 
the  two  or  three  hours  of  voyage  are  amply  awarded 
by  the  Island  itself. 

Santa  Catalina  has  a curving,  sickle-shaped  har- 
bor around  which  cluster  the  hotels  and  boarding 
houses  which  make  the  home  of  the  summer  guests. 
This  little  white  village  against  a background  of 
hilly  country,  taking  on  lovely  lavender  and  grey 
tints  at  sunset,  is  not  unlike  some  of  the  towns  on 
the  picturesque  coast  of  Cornwall.  Santa  Cata- 
lina is  a paradise  for  deep-sea  fishermen,  a lotus 
eaters’  island  where  one  may  walk  over  the  hills 
into  the  quiet  interior  or  take  a boat  and  dream 
along  the  rocks,  gazing  down  for  hours  at  the  beau- 
ties of  the  gardens  of  the  sea.  I would  advise  all 
tourists  to  take  time  to  visit  these  swaying  groves 
of  kelp  and  other  sea  plants  in  a row  boat.  One 
sees  them  in  this  way  far  more  intimately  and  sat- 
isfactorily than  by  a more  hurried  inspection.  In 


Harbor,  Catalina  Island.  2.  Seals  on  Rocks  at  Catalina  Island.  3.  Catalina  Island.  4.  Home 

Owner  of  Catalina  Island. 


libra  hr 

OF  Ih£ 

UNIVERSITY  OF  iLLlNOiS 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  61 


the  late  afternoon  everyone  at  Catalina  gathers  at 
the  pier  to  see  the  fishermen  come  in  with  their 
spoils.  Boat  after  boat  is  seen  approaching.  They 
round  the  pier  and  the  big  fish  are  lifted  up  for  all 
to  admire.  Then  come  the  weighing  and  the  clean- 
ing of  the  fish.  The  seagulls  hover  near,  ready  for 
their  share  of  the  spoils,  as  the  entrails  of  the  fish 
are  thrown  into  the  sea.  A tame  seal  swims  around 
from  his  home  on  the  rocks  several  miles  away  in 
order  to  have  his  portion  of  the  feast.  At  the  time 
of  our  visit  he  was  in  a fit  of  sulks,  as  a fisherman 
had  struck  him  on  the  head  with  an  oar  because  he 
had  tried  to  clamber  into  a boat  in  his  zeal  for  his 
supper.  A unique  experience  at  Catalina  is  an 
evening  ride  in  a swift  motor  boat  equipped  with 
a powerful  searchlight.  Faster  and  faster  goes  the 
boat  in  the  darkness,  the  searchlight  swinging  from 
side  to  side  over  the  wide  waters.  The  flying  flsh, 
startled  by  the  sweep  of  the  light  upon  the  water, 
leap  wildly  into  the  air.  The  air  is  full  of  them, 
and  of  the  sound  of  their  rushing  wings.  Plump! 
Here  comes  one  into  the  boat  I and  here’s  another, 
and  another!  We  shield  our  faces  with  our  hands, 
shouting  with  laughter  as  the  fish  fall  with  a thump 
into  the  boat,  sometimes  on  the  laps  of  the  passen- 


62  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


gers.  More  than  one  passenger  has  been  struck 
by  a flying  fish,  and  our  landlady  tells  us  of  a tou- 
rist who  went  out  for  an  evening  ride  in  the  motor 
boat  to  return  with  a black  eye  from  the  blow  of  a 
frightened  flying  fish.  Flying  fish  is  delicious  eat- 
ing, and  our  catch  is  divided  up  among  the  passen- 
gers. We  were  attracted  to  this  excursion  when  we 
first  landed  at  Catalina  by  a startling  advertisement 
describing  the  experience  as  “Thousands  of  flying 
fish  tangoing  through  the  air.” 

Catalina  Island  is  a quiet  spot,  outside  its  little 
rim  of  houses  along  its  curving  harbor.  The  pe- 
destrian may  go  inland  for  a number  of  miles,  tak- 
ing his  luncheon  with  him,  and  have  only  the  hills 
and  the  birds  for  his  company.  We  had  such  a walk, 
and  saw  a hawk  alight  and  settle  himself  calmly 
upon  a fencepost,  holding  in  his  talons  a newly 
captured  snake.  The  creature  was  still  alive,  its 
body  ringed  in  a rigid  hoop  in  its  effort  to  escape. 
But  the  cruel  claws  held  it  fast,  and  its  captor  was 
preparing  to  finish  it  with  his  sharp  beak.  W e were 
told  that  the  dust  from  Santa  Ana  Valley,  twenty- 
five  miles  away,  could  be  seen  approaching  in  a grey 
cloud  across  the  water  on  windy  days  from  shore- 
ward. Our  landlady  deplored  such  days,  when  her 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  63 

immaculate  house  was  covered  with  the  dust  of  the 
distant  mainland.  Santa  Catalina,  a grey  green 
agate  in  the  sunlight,  a purple  amethyst  at  twilight, 
ringed  by  lovely  seas,  is  well  worth  a visit. 

Returning  to  Long  Beach,  we  drove  on  toward 
San  Diego,  through  the  Santa  Ana  Valley  to  San 
Juan  Capistrano.  As  we  came  through  the  great 
valley  in  which  lie  Santa  Ana,  Fullerton,  and  Ana- 
heim, we  passed  fruitful  groves  of  lemons  and  vast 
fields  of  beets.  We  observed  an  odd  optical  illus- 
ion as  we  came  near  Tustin.  All  the  fields  before 
us  seemed  to  be  covered  with  water,  and  we  at  first 
thought  that  the  irrigating  streams  had  been  turned 
on  and  were  flowing  through  them.  But  as  we 
reached  the  fields  we  found  them  perfectly  dry. 
Field  after  field  stretched  before  us  apparently 
swimming  in  water,  and  field  after  field  as  we  came 
near  we  found  dry  and  brown  under  the  sun.  This 
occurred  more  than  once  in  southern  California  as 
we  were  driving  along  in  the  sunlight. 

At  San  Juan  Capistrano  we  stopped  to  see  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  Missions  in  all  California. 
The  cloisters  of  San  Juan,  the  ruins  of  the  very  fine 
old  church,  the  bells  in  their  places  above  the  walls, 
all  are  extremely  picturesque  and  beautiful.  At 


64  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


San  Juan  with  its  quaint  little  street  we  found  twe 
hotels,  both  of  which  had  attractions.  The  Mission 
Hotel  offered  us  Spanish  cooking,  attractive  to  one 
fond  of  red  pepper  and  high  seasoning.  Las  Rosas 
looked  like  a pleasant  country  home  turned  by  some 
enterprising  woman  into  an  inn.  We  chose  Las 
Rosas  and  had  an  excellent  home  dinner  there. 
From  San  Juan  Capistrano  we  drove  on  south  to 
Dehnar,  where  we  spent  the  night  at  the  Stratford 
Inn.  This  hotel,  which  sits  flower-encircled  on  its 
sandy  hillside  overlooking  the  blue  seas,  has  every 
modern  appointment  and  luxury.  The  settlement 
does  not  yet  seem  to  have  attracted  a large  cottage 
population,  but  there  are  some  homes  of  very 
charming  architecture  and  with  beautiful  gardens. 
We  walked  up  the  picturesque  hills  back  of  the 
hotel,  and  came  at  their  summit  to  the  precipitous 
edge  of  a great  bowl  from  which  we  looked  down 
upon  a green  valley  stretching  away  many  miles 
in  extent. 

From  Dehnar  the  next  morning  we  again  drove 
south  with  the  sea  on  our  right  and  the  hills  on  our 
left.  The  road  winds  over  very  hilly  country 
through  a growth  of  rare  pines  known  as  the  Tor- 
rey  pines,  found  only  here.  From  the  heights  of 


and  3.  San  Juan  Capistrano  Mission. 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILUNOiS 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  65 

these  hills  one  sees  at  a distance  a point  of  land 
stretching  into  the  sea,  with  a little  town  shining  on 
its  slopes  like  a jewel  in  the  sun.  It  looks,  as 
one  approaches  it  from  the  north,  like  a Riviera 
town.  This  is  the  enchanted  spot  on  the  south- 
thern  coast  known  as  La  Jolla  (pronounced  La 
Hoya) , a little  town  frequented  by  people  who  love 
the  Spanish  warmth  of  the  Southern  sun  and  the 
blue  of  the  Southern  sea.  Here  is  a beautiful  Epis- 
copal school  for  girls,  its  stucco  buildings  planned 
in  Spanish  fashion.  Here  is  a charming  little 
church  of  the  same  architecture.  Here,  perched  on 
the  rocks,  looking  out  to  sea  along  the  coast  fringe 
of  the  town,  are  flat-roofed  stucco  houses  with  a 
matchless  view  of  the  water.  Farther  back  on  the 
hills  overlooking  the  town,  are  lovely  winter  homes, 
also  built  in  the  architecture  of  Southern  countries. 
La  Jolla  is  one  of  the  loveliest  spots  on  the  whole 
Pacific  Coast.  Its  rocks,  its  caves,  its  Southern 
sea,  its  sunshine,  all  combine  to  make  it  a delightful 
place  in  which  to  spend  a winter. 

La  Jolla  is  only  fourteen  miles  from  San  Diego, 
and  it  was  an  easy  drive  from  there  into  the  bright, 
clean,  shining  city  of  the  South.  San  Diego  is  at 
present  in  a state  of  transition,  the  transition  from 


66  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


a little  city  to  a big  city.  She  has  a matchless  har- 
bor, plenty  of  room  in  which  to  grow,  and  what  is 
becoming  a rich  surrounding  country.  She  has  a 
perfect  situation,  with  the  harbor  before  her  and 
the  hills  rising  behind  her.  When  the  rails  connect 
her  with  the  “back  country”  she  will  undoubtedly 
become  a powerful  city. 

WTiat  could  be  more  beautiful  than  the  drive 
from  San  Diego  out  along  the  point  which  curves 
like  a great  claw  into  the  sea  and  is  known  as  Point 
Loma?  The  road  first  sweeps  along  close  to  the 
water,  passing  rows  of  pretty  suburban  homes. 
Then  it  rises,  swings  up  over  the  hills  on  to  the  high 
ridge  of  Point  Loma  proper,  the  open  sea  to  the 
right,  the  harbor  to  the  left,  passing  the  beautifully 
kept  grounds  of  the  fine  property  belonging  to  the 
School  of  Theosophy.  Beyond,  the  road  still 
climbs  until  it  comes  to  the  end  of  the  Point,  on 
which  stands  a little  old  Spanish  lighthouse,  now 
abandoned.  High  above  the  sea  one  looks  off  to  the 
far  away  islands.  Turning  about,  one  sees  the 
city,  white  in  the  sun,  the  mountains  rising  in  the 
distance  behind  it.  Running  out  from  the  city  is  a 
long,  narrow  strip  of  land  which  widens  into  Coro- 
nado Beach,  with  the  red  roofs  of  the  hotel  and  the 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY,  67 

* green  stretches  of  the  beautiful  little  town  of  Coro- 
nado. Just  below  is  the  blue  water  of  the  great 
harbor.  It  is  a grand  view,  and  ranks  in  my  opinion 
with  the  noble  views  of  Sydney  Harbor  in  Austra- 
lia and  of  Auckland  harbor  in  New  Zealand. 

San  Diego,  like  her  sister  cities  of  Los  Angeles 
and  San  Francisco,  is  a town  frequented  by  tour- 
ists. Many  are  the  hotels  and  apartment  houses, 
devoted  to  winter  sojourns  and  light  housekeeping, 
offset  by  excellent  cafeterias.  There  are  plenty 
of  excursions  from  San  Diego,  a short  one 
being  to  the  Spanish  house  in  the  village  of 
old  San  Diego,  known  as  the  home  of  Ra- 
mona. The  old  house  with  its  walled  garden  and 
its  wide  porches  has  been  put  in  order  and  is  now 
used  as  a depot  for  curios  and  Indian  goods.  An- 
other delightful  trip,  somewhat  longer,  is  to  Gross- 
mont.  Grossmont  is,  in  spite  of  its  name,  a little 
mountain,  some  fifteen  miles  back  of  San  Diego. 
It  is  an  irregular  heap  of  rocks,  rising  from  rather 
barren  surroimding  country.  Mr.  Fletcher  of 
San  Diego  first  saw  the  possibilities  of  Gross- 
mont and  marked  out  the  road  which  now  runs 
around  the  mountain  to  its  smnmit.  Here  are  the 
modest  houses  of  an  artist  and  literary  colony. 


68  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


among  them  the  cottage  of  Madame  Schumann- 
Heinck.  From  the  porches  of  these  cottages, 
perched  high  upon  the  bare  rocks,  one  looks  down 
upon  the  exquisite  little  El  Cajon  (The  Box)  Val- 
ley, where  grow  lemons,  oranges,  and  other  fruits 
in  beautiful  green  luxuriance.  El  Cajon  could 
once  have  been  bought  for  a song,  but  now  its  fer- 
tile acres,  under  the  spell  of  irrigation,  are  worth 
many  thousands. 

Beyond  El  Cajon  rise  the  superb  mountains  of 
the  South  in  all  their  rocky  grandeur.  They  take 
on  most  wonderful  colors ; warm  clay  yellows,  rich 
browns,  lavenders,  tints  of  ashes  of  rose.  They  are 
constantly  changing  as  the  day  advances,  and  are  a 
world  of  color.  No  wonder  that  singers,  poets,  and 
artists  love  to  look  upon  the  glowing  greens  below 
and  the  glowing  lavenders  afar.  The  view  from 
Grossmont  is  extremely  poetic  and  beautiful. 

We  should  have  considered  our  visit  to  California 
very  incomplete  without  having  seen  San  Diego,  its 
Southern  seas  and  its  fascinating  “back  country.” 
It  is  wholly  diflPerent  from  Los  Angeles,  and  the 
charm  of  the  South  is  over  it  all.  Were  I a young 
business  man,  seeking  to  cast  in  my  lot  with  a grow- 
ing California  city,  I should  cast  it  in  San  Diego. 


BY,  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  69 


From  San  Diego  we  proceeded  through  El  Ca- 
jon Valley  to  the  little  town  of  Julian,  nearly 
4000  feet  high.  That  was  a memorable  ride, 
taking  us  through  green  valleys  and  then  up,  up 
through  broken  hill  country  and  past  heavy  oak 
and  pine  forests  and  rich  mountain  pastures.  In 
going  over  Mussey’s  Grade  I saw,  for  the  first  time, 
growing  on  the  rocky  hillsides  groups  of  tall  yuc- 
cas. I could  not  be  content  until  I had  climbed  out 
of  the  motor  and  cut  one  of  the  towering  stalks, 
springing  from  a mass  of  thick,  sword-shaped 
leaves.  Its  white  scented  bells  covered  the  stalk 
from  top  to  bottom.  It  was  a tree  of  creamy  bloom 
and  perfume.  I laid  it  on  top  of  om  luggage,  en- 
joying its  perfume  from  time  to  time;  but  the  beau- 
tiful bells  began  to  droop,  and  by  the  time  the  day’s 
long  journey  was  over  the  flowers  had  withered. 
Afterward,  I saw  many  of  these  yuccas  growing 
in  lonely,  rocky  places,  blooming  luxuriantly.  They 
were  like  tall  white  candelabra. 

On  our  way  to  Julian,  a few  miles  from  the  little 
town,  by  mistake  we  turned  left  instead  of  right, 
and  had  a long  wandering  through  a great  moun- 
tain country.  The  roads  were  narrow,  twilight  was 
coming  on,  and  we  found  ourselves  in  a seemingly 


70  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


endless  forest.  Sometimes  from  high  points  we  had 
wonderful  sunset  glimpses  of  distant  mountains 
looming  above  green  valleys.  Then  again  we  came 
upon  lush  meadow  patches,  wide  and  lonely  in  the 
midst  of  the  hills.  Still  the  road  wound  on,  down 
through  ravines,  up  over  steep  hillsides.  Not  a 
house  was  to  be  seen,  only  the  lonely  forest  and  the 
deepening  darkness.  It  looked  as  if  we  must  spend 
the  night  in  the  woods.  At  last  we  came  out  through 
a rough  gate  into  the  main  road  and  reading  a sign 
by  the  light  of  a match  found  that  we  were  a mile 
from  Julian.  It  was  good  to  reach  the  tiny  vil- 
lage and  to  find  the  Robinson  House,  a very  clean 
and  respectable  village  inn,  kept  by  an  old  colored 
soldier  and  his  wife.  They  gave  us  an  excellent 
supper  and  we  found  a very  comfortable  bed  await- 
ing us.  We  had  taken  a road  through  the  moun- 
tain district  back  of  a beautiful  summer  inn,  known 
as  the  Pine  Hills  Inn,  and  had  wandered  over  the 
drives  planned  for  the  pleasure  of  summer  guests. 

We  saw  the  Pine  Hills  Inn  perched  upon  the 
hillside,  the  next  morning.  It  was  only  a short  dis- 
tance from  where  we  had  struck  the  main  road  for 
Julian.  We  had  fully  intended  to  spend  a night 
at  this  famous  little  inn,  but  must  leave  that  for 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  71 


the  next  time.  Julian  is  famed  for  its  apples,  grow- 
ing nearly  4000  feet  high.  We  saw  a charm- 
ing picture  of  blossoming  apple  trees,  grown 
against  a dark  background  of  tall  mountain  pines 
which  flanked  the  orchard  slope.  There  is  a fa- 
mous view  near  Julian.  Looking  down  from  a 
break  in  the  hills  one  sees  far,  far  beyond  and  be- 
low the  grey  stretches  of  the  desert  and  the  Salton 
sea. 

From  Julian  we  drove  on  to  Warner’s  Hot 
Springs,  where  many  people  resort  for  the  healing 
power  of  the  Springs,  and  where  a pleasant  little 
hotel,  surrounded  by  cottages,  makes  a delightful 
stopping  place  for  those  who  wish  to  enjoy  the  sun- 
shine and  to  pierce  the  defiles  of  the  mountains 
back  of  the  valley  of  the  Springs.  The  Springs 
are  on  a great  ranch  which  covers  thousands  of 
acres  and  supports  hundreds  of  cattle.  To  reach 
them  one  drives  over  long  stretches  of  plain,  partly 
rich  grass,  where  cattle  feed,  partly  somewhat  bar- 
ren country. 

Leaving  the  Hot  Springs,  we  drove  again  across 
the  vast  sandy  stretches  and  the  rich  green  plains 
of  the  Warner  Ranch,  coming  from  there  through 
picturesque  and  somewhat  broken  country  to  the 


72  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


little  Pala  Mission.  Before  reaching  the  Mis- 
sion one  comes  along  a mountain  road  cut  like 
a shelf  into  the  hill  and  very  high  above  the  valley. 
The  little  town  which  is  the  seat  of  the  Mission  is 
reached  by  a long  descent.  The  most  interesting 
thing  about  the  Mission  now  is  its  bells,  which  are 
set  so  that  the  wall  in  whose  open  niches  they  are 
hung  makes  a picturesque  framework  for  them. 
Leaving  the  town  we  came  on  through  a deep  and 
rocky  canyon,  whose  scenery  was  wild  and  moim- 
tainous.  From  this  we  emerged  into  a broad  valley 
which  grew  more  beautiful  as  we  traveled  north- 
ward. Wide  grain  ranches  stretched  away  to  the 
right,  walled  in  by  the  massive  ramparts  of  Nellie 
Palomar  Mountain.  Other  ranches  stretched  to  the 
left,  ending  in  the  foothills  in  rich  groves  of  olive 
trees.  We  were  traveling  through  Temecula  on 
our  way  to  Elsinore,  a town  of  hot  springs.  There 
we  spent  a comfortable  night  at  a hotel  situated  on 
a little  lake.  The  lake  in  the  evening  light  with  the 
olive  orchards  stretching  down  to  its  waters  from 
the  foothills  opposite  was  very  charming.  From 
Elsinore  we  drove  on  in  the  morning  through  an 
open  canyon,  where  Matilija  poppies  grew  plenti- 
fully, to  Corona.  Corona  is  a lovely  little  town 


Pala  Mission.  2.  Hillside  Orchard  in  California. 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UniVERSlTY  OF  ILLINOIS 


(] 


i 


1 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  73 


belted  by  an  encircling  boulevard,  broad  and 
shaded.  It  lies  in  a fertile  valley  whose  plains  and 
hill-slopes  are  covered  by  thousands  of  lemon  trees, 
tended  with  a mother’s  care.  Above  the  valley  rise 
the  mountains  on  the  distant  horizon.  One  can  see 
lemons  being  gathered,  flowers  blooming,  and  new 
groves  being  planted  in  the  valley,  and  then  look 
up  to  snow-capped  peaks  beyond.  Here  lemon 
orchards  are  valued  at  $2,000  and  more  an  acre. 
When  the  trees  have  reached  the  bearing  stage  and 
are  in  good  condition,  lemon  orchard  land  is  a gold 
mine.  We  heard  of  people  who  rented  their  or- 
chards on  the  basis  of  $2,000  value  per  acre,  receiv- 
ing interest  on  that  valuation.  We  heard  also  of 
successful  lemon  growers  who  had  purchased  large 
acreages  of  lemon-bearing  land  at  $1,000  per  acre 
and  who  had  within  two  years  after  purchase  mar- 
keted a crop  of  lemons  whose  selling  price  covered 
the  entire  amount  paid  for  the  orchard  two  years 
before. 

We  visited  a big  packing  house  and  saw  dark 
eyed  Sicilians,  alert  and  prosperous,  sorting,  clean- 
ing, and  packing  the  lemons.  Everything  pro- 
ceeded with  swiftness  and  yet  with  orderliness. 
Down  the  long  troughs  rolled  the  lemons,  each  grav- 


74  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


itating  through  a hole  according  to  its  size.  Into  a 
bubbling  cauldron  they  were  gently  railroaded, 
where  brushes  from  above  and  from  below  washed 
them  and  pushed  them  on.  With  much  deft- 
ness packers  caught  a square  of  tissue  paper  with 
the  left  hand,  a lemon  with  the  right  hand  and 
wrapped  the  fruit.  The  filled  box  was  pushed 
along  a polished  runway  to  the  inspector.  He 
deftly  and  quickly  looked  the  box  over,  decided 
whether  the  packing  was  close  and  firm,  nailed  on 
a top,  and  bound  the  box  with  supporting  iron 
bands.  It  was  then  ready  to  go  into  the  freight 
car  on  the  track  a few  feet  away,  where  experienced 
men  were  loading  the  car  with  the  yellow  fruit.  We 
were  told  that  notwithstanding  competition  with 
the  Sicilian  and  Italian  fruit,  California  lemons  had 
all  the  market  their  owners  could  wish  for.  Cer- 
tainly when  one  sees  the  care  with  which  the  fruit 
is  grown,  the  mellow  sun  under  which  it  matures, 
and  the  skillful  gathering,  cleaning,  and  packing  of 
the  packing  houses,  one  wishes  every  right  of  way 
for  California  lemons.  One  lemon  grower  told  us 
that  in  the  course  of  the  past  twenty  years  he  had 
advanced  hundreds  of  dollars  to  his  Sicilian  labor- 
ers who  had  asked  his  help  to  bring  over  their 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  75 


fathers,  their  brothers,  and  other  relatives.  He 
said  that  kinsman  after  kinsman  had  been  brought 
over  and  had  added  himself  and  his  work  to  the 
Corona  colony,  and  that  their  benefactor  had  never 
lost  a dollar.  All  the  loans  had  been  conscien- 
tiously returned  in  the  course  of  time. 

Californians  look  forward  to  a great  flood  of  im- 
migration within  the  next  few  years,  and  hope  that 
Europe  will  send  them  the  men  to  till  their  lands 
and  cultivate  their  rich  valleys  and  hill-slopes. 
There  is  plenty  of  room  for  them  in  this  splendid 
empire  of  a State. 


76  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


CHAPTER  V 

It  was  an  easy  drive  from  Corona  to  Riverside, 
which  we  reached  in  the  late  afternoon  in  time  for 
a sunset  drive  up  and  around  the  corkscrew  road 
leading  to  the  top  of  Mt.  Rubidoux.  No  one 
should  miss  the  view  from  the  top  of  Rubidoux 
Mountain.  While  its  summit  is  not  at  a great 
height,  yet  the  mountain  is  so  isolated  and  the  whole 
surrounding  country  is  so  level  a valley  that  the 
view  is  very  extensive.  One  looks  down  upon  the 
town  of  Riverside,  with  its  pleasant  homes  and 
church  steeples;  and  upon  miles  of  lemon  and  or- 
ange orchards  groomed  to  the  last  degree  of  fer- 
tility and  perfection.  It  is  an  immense  garden. 
Orchards,  towns,  grassy  spaces  with  a silver  river 
winding  through  them,  all  give  one  that  sense,  ever 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  77 


present  in  California,  of  happiness,  of  genial  cli- 
mate, of  unfailing  beauty  of  surrounding. 

At  Riverside  one  stays  of  course,  even  if  but  for 
a night,  at  the  famous  Mission  Inn,  known  as  the 
Glenwood.  Here  is  the  creation  of  a man  who  has 
brought  together  in  imique  and  pleasing  combina- 
tion the  features  of  an  inn,  of  a great  curio  shop, 
of  a cathedral,  of  a happy  lounging  place.  You 
may  study  for  hours  antique  pieces  of  furniture; 
old  tapestries,  old  hells,  old  bits  of  stained  glass. 
You  may  spend  an  evening  in  the  great  music  hall 
with  its  cathedral  seats  and  listen  to  the  organ 
played  by  a finished  and  yet  popular  artist.  You 
may  lounge  in  an  easy  chair  on  a cloistered  porch. 
All  these  and  many  other  things  you  may  do  at  the 
wonderful  Mission  Inn.  But  the  open  road  called 
us  and  we  had  time  for  only  one  night  in  Riverside. 
We  drove  from  Riverside  to  Redlands,  a particu- 
larly charming  town.  It  has  a better  situation  than 
Riverside,  being  on  a slope  instead  of  upon  a level 
plain.  It  has  beautiful  streets  and  hosts  of  lovely 
winter  homes  of  most  attractive  architecture.  The 
drive  up  to  Smiley  Heights,  where  one  rims 
through  exquisite  gardens  along  a narrow  ridge, 
looking  down  upon  a green  cultivated  valley  on  the 


78  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


one  side,  and  a polished  winter  city  on  the  other 
side,  is  a delightful  experience. 

From  Redlands  we  drove  on  to  San  Bernardino 
and  thence  to  Pomona  and  Claremont.  The  San 
Bernardino  Yalley  has  miles  of  grapes,  the  vine- 
yards being  on  an  immense  scale.  In  California 
the  grapes  are  not  trained  upon  arbors.  The  stalks 
are  kept  low,  and  in  looking  over  a vineyard  one 
sees  long  rows  of  low  growing,  stocky  vines,  and 
masses  of  green  foliage.  In  San  Bernardino  they 
have  a fashion  of  planting  windbreaks  of  ever- 
greens around  their  gardens  and  smaller  vineyards ; 
but  there  are  also  immense  stretches  of  open  coun- 
try planted  with  vines.  One  vineyard  of  three 
thousand  acres  has  a sign  announcing  that  it  is  the 
largest  vineyard  in  the  world.  Pomona  and  Clare- 
mont are  pleasant  towns,  Pomona  being  the  seat  of 
a college.  From  Claremont  we  drove  on  to  Pasa- 
dena. There  are  lovely  drives  about  Pasadena,  and 
one  should  not  neglect  to  go  up  along  the  foot- 
hills and  from  that  point  of  vantage  look  down 
upon  the  town  spread  out  on  the  slopes  below. 
There  is  now  a motor  drive  up  Mt.  Wilson,  from 
which  one  has  extremely  grand  views,  but  the  Mt. 
Wilson  drive  is  to  be  recommended  only  to  people 


by;  the  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY]  79 

with  small,  light  machines  which  have  a short  turn- 
ing base.  The  mountain  road  is  by  no  means  the 
equal  of  the  roads  one  finds  in  the  Alps.  It  is  too 
narrow  and  too  hazardous  for  any  but  small  ma- 
chines. For  most  tourists  the  nine  miles  of  the  Mt. 
Wilson  road  would  better  be  traversed  on  donkey- 
back.  For  those  who  love  to  climb,  the  winding 
road  is  a delightful  walk  with  views  of  changing 
grandeur.  The  hotel  at  the  top  is  a very  pleasant 
place  to  stay,  and  one  may  have  there  the  glories 
of  the  sunset  and  the  sunrise. 

The  most  lovely  avenue  in  Pasadena,  up  and 
down  which  one  should  drive  several  times,  is  Or- 
ange Grove  Avenue.  Along  the  street  the  feathery 
pepper  tree  and  the  palm  alternate.  The  strik- 
ingly handsome  electric  lamp  standards  are  of 
bronze.  Open  lawns  are  characteristic  settings  for 
the  beautiful  houses  which  line  the  avenue.  There 
are  many  houses  of  white  or  yellow  stucco,  some  of 
them  set  off  by  delicate  iron  balconies.  Leaving  the 
finished  beauty  of  Orange  Avenue  we  drove  over  a 
great  canyon  across  which  is  flung  a very  ornamen- 
tal bridge.  The  canyon  has  been  turned  into  a 
park,  and  fine  houses  stand  on  its  banks,  command- 
ing from  their  heights  wonderful  views. 


80  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


We  came  on  through  Burbank  and  once  more 
into  the  San  Fernando  Valley,  just  being  opened 
up.  Here  and  there  were  tiny  houses  and  some- 
times tents,  the  first  shelters  of  settlers  who  were 
cultivating  their  newly  acquired  patches  of  land. 
We  saw  people  cleaning  and  plowing  their  land. 
Off  to  the  right  were  beautiful  mountains  with 
houses  and  ranches  nestled  in  the  foothills.  We 
drove  through  the  new  town  of  San  Fernando  and 
over  the  fine  highway  of  the  Newhall  grade,  pass- 
ing through  a tunnel  and  going  on  to  Saugus  by  a 
splendid  road  running  all  the  way  from  Pasadena. 
Just  after  leaving  San  Fernando  we  came  through 
Sylmar,  where  a big  sign  told  us  that  we  were  pass- 
ing “the  largest  olive  orchard  in  the  world.”  This 
is  the  property  of  the  Los  Angeles  Olive  Growers’ 
Association.  We  drove  for  more  than  a mile  past 
the  ranks  of  grey-green  trees  which  stretched  away 
back  to  the  foothills. 

From  Saugus  we  turned  toward  Mint  Canyon. 
We  were  now  about  to  cross  the  great  backbone  of 
California,  running  north  and  south  and  dividing 
the  valleys  of  the  coast  from  the  valleys  of  the  in- 
terior. We  could  have  crossed  by  the  Tehachapi 
Pass,  but  preferred  for  this  time  to  drive  through 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  81 


Mint  Canyon  and  over  the  Tejon  Pass.  All  along 
the  Canyon  we  saw  little  homesteads  planted  in 
pocket  valleys.  Here  and  there  were  green  spots ; 
orchards  newly  set  out,  patches  of  grain  beginning 
to  grow.  Little  wooden  shacks  showed  where  the 
homesteaders  had  first  sheltered  their  household 
goods.  The  settlers  themselves  were  working  in 
their  fields  and  orchards.  There  were  long 
stretches,  too,  of  rough  country  where  tall  yuccas, 
sometimes  ten  feet  high,  were  blooming.  At  Palm- 
dale we  came  out  into  a great  plain,  the  mountains 
in  the  distance.  A high  wind  was  blowing,  filling 
our  eyes  with  dust.  Somewhere  on  the  plain  the 
searching  wind  whipped  my  lightweight  motor  coat 
out  of  the  tonneau  where  I had  stowed  it  and  I saw 
it  no  more.  It  was  literally  blown  out  of  sight  and 
knowledge.  We  had  seen  all  along  advertisements 
of  “Palmdale  Acres,”  and  we  now  came  to  the  little 
town  itself,  a tiny  settlement  with  flamboyant  signs 
advertising  its  high  hopes.  We  read,  “Keep  your 
eye  on  Palmdale,  10,000  people  in  1925.”  Close  to 
the  sign  was  the  irrigation  ditch  with  a thick  stream 
of  water  rushing  through.  We  realized  that  all  the 
hopes  of  Palmdale  and  all  the  possibilities  of  future 
population  were  centered  in  that  stream,  which  was 


82  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


to  carry  life  and  fertility  to  the  great  dusty  plains 
before  us. 

We  had  taken  luncheon  at  Acton,  a sordid  little 
place  with  an  extremely  imattractive  wooden  hotel, 
poor  and  bare.  The  luncheon,  cooked  and  served 
by  a hard  working  landlady,  had  been  better  than 
appearances  promised.  We  had  had  hot  beefsteak, 
a good  boiled  potato,  some  crisp  lettuce,  and  fair 
tea.  Western  people  are  addicted  to  green  tea,  a 
great  affliction  to  one  accustomed  to  black  tea. 
Western  hotel  keepers  would  do  well  to  use  black 
tea  for  their  tourists,  as  the  use  of  green  tea  is,  so 
far  as  I know,  almost  unknown  in  the  East. 

Our  road  was  rising  now  and  we  were  approach- 
ing Neenach.  We  were  driving  along  the  foot- 
hills on  the  high  side  of  another  great  valley.  As 
we  came  near  Neenach  we  passed  an  orchard  to  our 
right,  the  trees  loaded  with  beautiful,  velvety  green 
almonds.  To  the  left  was  another  orchard,  filled 
with  neglected,  dying  almond  trees.  We  had  not 
known  whether  we  would  find  at  Neenach  a little 
town  or  a corner  grocery  store.  It  turned  out  to 
be  simply  a post  offlce  in  the  home  of  a young  set- 
tler who  with  his  wife  was  just  making  his  start  at 
ranching.  He  was  a delightful  yoimg  fellow  with 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  83 

shining  white  teeth,  clear  eyes,  and  an  enthusiasm 
that  was  pleasant  to  see.  A big  St.  Bernard  dog 
protected  his  wife,  who  looked  very  picturesque  in 
her  riding  costume.  Although  the  ranchman  had 
been  brought  up  in  a city,  he  had  come  out  to  these 
foothills,  bought  one  hundred  and  sixty  acres  at 
$17.50  an  acre,  driven  his  well  forty  feet,  got  his 
water,  and  planted  his  cottonwood  trees  for  his 
first  shade.  He  was  soon  to  plant  his  orchard  and 
start  his  garden.  He  told  us  that  he  would  have 
plenty  of  water,  as  the  mountains  on  whose  foot- 
slopes  the  farm  lay  were  nine  miles  deep  and  fifteen 
miles  long.  I asked  him  about  the  orchards  which 
we  had  just  passed,  so  fruitful  on  the  right,  so  sad 
and  neglected  on  the  left.  He  said  that  the  al- 
mond orchards  on  the  left  had  been  planted  years 
ago  by  a little  colony  of  people  who  had  three  bad 
years  following  their  planting.  They  became  dis- 
couraged and  moved  away,  abandoning  their  or- 
chards and  houses.  The  orchards  which  we  had 
seen  full  of  fruit  were  of  a later  planting. 

We  asked  why  it  was  that  the  great  spaces  of 
Antelope  Valley  which  stretched  below  the  hills 
and  off  to  the  mountains  beyond  had  not  been  taken 
by  settlers.  Our  young  ranchman  explained  that 


84  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 

the  valley  which  looked  to  be  about  eight  miles 
across  was  really  thirty  miles  wide,  and  that  it  was 
too  far  from  water  for  people  to  settle  there.  I 
looked  over  the  immense  stretches  of  the  valley 
and  at  the  masses  of  tall,  spiky  tree-yuccas,  and 
wished  that  some  way  might  be  found  to  irrigate 
those  thousands  of  acres.  If  some  modern  Moses 
could  strike  water  from  a rock,  which  would  flow 
through  Antelope  Valley,  our  young  settler  would 
someday  look  down  upon  hundreds  of  houses  and 
white  tents  instead  of  upon  lonely  forests  of  yucca. 

We  drove  on  from  Neenach  to  the  top  of  the 
grade,  some  4230  feet.  Huge  round-shouldered 
hills,  bare  and  lonely,  rose  on  each  side  of  us.  Com- 
ing to  the  Lebec  ranch  house,  we  asked  shelter  for 
the  night.  These  ranch  houses  are  very  hospitable 
and  are  willing  to  take  the  place  of  a hotel  so  far  as 
they  are  able.  We  found  the  head  of  the  house  in 
some  confusion  and  anxiety.  His  cook  had  left 
that  morning  and  the  settlement  school  ma’am  had 
offered  to  help  with  the  cooking  in  the  emergency. 
One  of  the  ranchmen  volunteered  to  make  the  bed 
in  our  sleeping  room,  although  he  confessed  that 
he  had  never  made  a bed  in  all  his  life  before.  We 
ate  our  supper  with  the  ranchmen,  sitting  at  an  oil- 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  85 


cloth-covered  table.  We  had  hunks  of  cold  meat, 
noodle  soup  with  very  thick,  hearty  noodles,  stewed 
dried  peaches,  sliced  onions,  stewed  tomatoes,  and 
good  bread  and  coffee.  After  a talk  before  a blaz- 
ing open  fire  with  two  young  electric  engineers  who, 
like  ourselves,  had  sought  shelter  for  the  night,  we 
had  a dreamless  night’s  slumber. 

In  the  morning  we  had  a most  interesting  break- 
fast with  a long  table  full  of  hungry  ranchmen. 
Next  us  sat  a big  fellow  who  was  in  a rather  pessi- 
mistic mood.  He  spoke  sadly  of  California  and  its 
resources  and  very  warmly  of  Virginia.  “That’s 
the  place  to  live!”  he  said.  “You  can  drive  for  a 
hundred  miles  here  and  not  see  a ranch  house  or  a 
schoolhouse  or  a church  worth  looking  at.  In  Vir- 
ginia it’s  just  like,  as  a fellow  says,  ‘every  drink 
you  take,  things  look  different.’  You  drive  up  on 
a knoll,  and  you  see  before  you  a lovely  farm  with 
a nice  farmhouse,  and  a well-built  barn  and  out- 
houses. Then  you  drive  over  another  knoll,  and 
you  see  another  nice  farmhouse.  Virginia  and  the 
East  for  me ! In  this  country  you  can  walk  through 
foxtail  grass  until  you’re  ruined,  and  you  see  no 
buildings  worth  looking  at.”  This  started  ani- 
mated discussion  as  to  the  merits  of  California  com- 


86  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


pared  with  the  merits  of  Eastern  farming  country, 
the  young  school  ma’am  vibrating  between  the  little 
kitchen  and  the  dining  room  and  taking  her  part 
in  the  conversation.  She  was  from  Indiana,  and  told 
me  that  while  she  hked  Cahfornia  she  did  not  ap- 
prove of  California’s  neglect  of  history  in  the  pub- 
lic schools.  She  felt  that  the  children  were  given 
no  knowledge  of  ancient  or  of  modern  history  in 
the  teaching  scheme.  She  assured  me  that  her  own 
pupils  were  taught  history  very  faithfully. 

We  were  sorry  to  leave  the  ranch  with  its  low 
houses  and  its  pretty  lake  in  the  foreground.  We 
drove  on  down  the  Pass,  coming  over  rather  precip- 
itous roads  to  a last  steep  slope  from  whose  height 
we  looked  off  to  an  immense  level  valley  which 
seemed  to  stretch  away  forever.  Violet  morning 
lights  hung  over  it  and  it  looked  like  an  enchanted 
country.  This  was  our  first  view  of  the  San  Joa- 
quin Valley,  through  which  we  were  to  drive  for 
many  miles. 

As  we  began  to  cross  the  valley,  coming  first 
through  rather  dull,  scrubby  stretches,  I saw  acres 
of  a delicate  pink  and  white  bell-shaped  flower, 
somewhat  like  a morning  glory,  growing  close  to 
the  ground,  blooming  luxuriantly  in  the  midst  of  a 


1.,  2.  and  3.  Cowboy  Games  at  Bakersfleld. 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  87 


whorl  of  green  leaves.  I later  asked  a country  woman 
the  name  of  the  flower,  but  she  could  only  tell 
me  that  they  called  the  lovely  delicate  things  sand 
flowers.  As  we  approached  Bakersfield  the  land 
grew  richer  and  the  grass  was  thicker  and  greener. 
Meadow  larks  were  flying  about  in  great  numbers, 
singing  their  sweet,  clear  song.  At  Bakersfield  we 
stopped  at  the  New  Southern  Hotel,  which  is,  like 
most  W estern  hotels,  European  in  plan.  W e found 
a delightful  cafeteria  known  as  the  Clock  Tower 
Cafeteria,  kept  by  two  women,  and  with  most  ap- 
petizing home  cooking.  Bakersfield  is  one  of  the 
most  Western  of  California  towns.  Something  in 
the  swing  of  its  citizens  as  they  walk  along,  some- 
thing in  the  wide  sombreros  and  high  boots  which 
the  visiting  cowboys  wear  imparts  a general  breezi- 
ness and  Western  atmosphere.  It  is  a little  town 
with  the  clothes  of  a big  town.  It  has  very  wide 
streets  and  is  laid  out  on  a generous  scale.  Its  fine 
Courthouse,  its  beautiful  new  schoolhouse,  its 
pretty  homes,  its  residence  streets  with  their  rows 
of  blooming  oleanders,  pink  and  white,  make  it  an 
attractive  town.  But  it  must  be  confessed  that  it  is 
very  hot  in  Bakersfield,  as  it  is  in  most  towns  of  the 
San  Joaquin  and  Sacramento  Valleys.  The  most 


88  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


interesting  thing  to  me  in  Bakersfield  was  a leather 
shop,  where  I saw  handsome  Mexican  saddles,  very 
intricately  and  ornately  stamped.  These  are  made 
to  order  and  have  any  amount  of  beautiful  work 
upon  them.  At  the  same  shop  I saw  handsome 
stamped  belts  and  leather  coin  cases,  long  leather 
cuffs  which  cowboys  affect,  and  tall  riding  boots 
with  ornate  stitching.  When  we  left  Bakersfield 
we  saw  just  outside  the  town  a perfect  forest  of  oil 
derricks  towering  into  the  air,  some  of  the  wells  be- 
ing new  ones,  others  having  been  abandoned.  Ba- 
kersfield is  the  center  of  a rich  oil  territory,  from 
which  much  wealth  has  flowed. 

In  leaving  the  town  we  turned  by  mistake  to  the 
right  instead  of  to  the  left,  and  found  ourselves  trav- 
eling toward  a Grand  Canyon  on  a minature  scale. 
We  were  driving  over  lonely  country  where  the  wa- 
ter had  worn  the  hills  into  fantastic  shapes  and 
where  the  whole  country  was  a series  of  terraces. 
Sometimes  small  tablelands  stood  up  boldly  be- 
fore us,  sometimes  cone-shaped  pieces  of  plateau, 
like  small  volcanoes,  appeared  in  long  rows  beyond 
us.  Beautiful  purple  mists  and  shadows  hung  over 
these  carvings  of  nature  as  the  sun  began  to  decline. 
The  country  grew  lonelier  and  wilder,  and  we  de- 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY.  89 

cided  that  we  must  retrace  our  journey  and  find 
out  where  we  were.  As  we  came  near  to  Bakers- 
field again  we  saw  the  camp  of  an  engineer  who  was 
making  some  borings  for  oil.  He  told  us  that  we 
had  taken  the  wrong  turn  and  directed  us  on  our 
way,  past  the  tall  derricks  and  northeast  to  Tu- 
lare. 

So  we  turned  our  backs  on  the  browns,  yellows, 
and  slate  colors,  the  pinks  and  the  lavenders  of  the 
lonely  tableland  country  and  struck  north  along  a 
very  fair  road.  We  drove  for  twenty  miles  through 
rather  level,  brown,  desert  country,  coming  then 
into  a grain  country.  All  along  there  were  pump 
houses  on  the  ranehes,  connected  with  the  electric 
current  by  heavy  wires  which  ran  from  the  main 
lines  along  the  road  to  the  little  houses  in  the  fields. 
I hked  to  think  that  the  magic  current  streamed 
down  those  side  wires  from  the  main  river  of  elec- 
tricity, worked  the  pumps  and  brought  up  the  wa- 
ter that  made  the  whole  country  the  fertile,  grain- 
growing region  it  evidently  was.  We  ate  supper 
at  the  McFarland  Hotel  some  twenty-five  miles 
from  Bakersfield.  Our  Wisconsin  hostess  who 
talked  with  us  while  her  Japanese  cook  prepared 
our  supper  told  us  that  three  years  ago  there  were 


90  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


only  a few  people  living  in  tents  in  this  region. 
Now  the  wells  are  down  and  there  is  a prosperous 
httle  town,  the  water  being  found  only  thirty  feet 
below  the  surface.  We  came  on  through  more  fields 
of  ripe  wheat  and  green  alfalfa.  We  saw  one  set- 
tler’s tent  pitched  in  the  midst  of  a beautiful  al- 
mond orchard,  with  great  stacks  of  alfalfa  near  by. 
His  wellhouse  was  near,  and  some  day  in  the  golden 
future  he  will  undoubtedly  build  his  dwelling. 

Eleven  miles  from  Tulare  a tall  country  hoy 
came  out  from  the  shadows  as  we  passed  through  a 
little  village  and  asked  if  he  might  ride  to  Tulare 
with  us.  We  tucked  away  his  bulky  newspaper 
bundle  in  the  machine  and  gave  him  permission  to 
sit  on  the  tool  box,  which  was  fastened  on  the  rim- 
ning-board.  He  thanked  us  warmly  when  we 
reached  the  quiet  streets  of  Tulare  and  offered  to 
pay  us,  but  of  course  we  assured  him  that  we  were 
glad  to  have  given  him  a lift.  We  did  not  often  do 
this  as  we  were  always  afraid  some  one  would  be 
hurt  in  riding  on  the  running-board.  We  had  a 
comfortable  room  at  the  Hotel  St.  Maxon,  and 
drove  on  the  next  day  through  the  fertile  val- 
ley to  Fresno.  Now  we  were  in  the  region  of  rich 
vineyards  and  luxuriant  fig  trees.  For  the  first 


1.  Old  Grizzly,  Mariposa  Big  Trees.  2.  Old  Sunset,  Mariposa 
Big  Trees. 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  91 


time,  as  we  approached  Fresno,  I saw  whole  or- 
chards of  fig  trees.  Fresno  is  a pretty  town  with 
the  wide,  bright  streets  and  look  of  prosperity  of 
so  many  California  towns.  It  is  the  home  of  sev- 
eral thousand  Armenian  and  Greek  workers.  Only 
that  morning  the  Young  Women’s  Christian  Asso- 
ciation had  welcomed  to  Fresno  a little  woman  who 
had  come  all  the  way  from  Constantinople  to  meet 
her  husband.  The  town  pays  the  price  for  being  the 
seat  of  the  raisin  industry  by  being  very  hot  in 
summer. 

From  Fresno  we  drove  across  somewhat  uninter- 
esting country,  rolling  and  solitary,  diversified  only 
by  grain  fields  and  stacks  of  alfalfa,  to  Madera. 
At  Madera  we  turned  our  faces  toward  the  high 
Sierras,  going  on  to  Raymond  with  a view  to  driv- 
ing over  the  mountain  road  to  Wawona,  one  of  the 
gates  of  the  Yosemite  and  very  near  to  the  famous 
Mariposa  Grove  of  Big  Trees. 


92  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


CHAPTER  VI 

When  we  reached  Raymond  we  had  left  the  val- 
leys behind  us  and  were  in  the  rough  country  pre- 
ceding the  long  climb  up  through  the  high  Sierras 
to  Wawona.  It  was  late  afternoon,  and  as  we 
drove  along  we  enjoyed  the  wooded  hills  and  the 
far  views  over  deep  gulleys  to  the  mountains  be- 
yond, in  the  afternoon  sunshine.  We  met  but  few 
people  on  the  steep,  rocky  mountain  road.  At  one 
point  we  passed  a roadside  group  of  campers  for 
the  night.  They  had  unharnessed  their  weary 
horses,  had  built  a fire,  and  were  preparing  their 
supper.  The  water-trough  used  by  travelers  was 
close  by,  and  they  had  pure  spring  water  for  their 
needs.  There  were  two  families,  with  a host  of 
children,  going  up  into  the  pine  woods  to  one  of  the 
sawmills  where  the  men  were  to  work.  The  young 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  93 


mother  of  one  family  had  with  her  a little  three- 
weeks-old  baby,  fat  and  rosy-looking  as  his  proud 
father  held  him  before  the  fire.  The  poor  mother 
was  very  weary  and  disheartened.  “I  am  not  used 
to  this,”  she  said,  as  she  folded  up  some  bits  of 
clothing  that  she  had  been  washing  for  the  chil- 
dren. The  wagons  looked  as  if  furniture  and 
clothing  had  been  piled  in  “higgledy  pigglety.” 
The  children  and  their  parents  slept  as  best  they 
could  on  top  of  this  lumpy  mass.  One  little  girl 
of  twelve  or  so  had  a tear-stained  face  and  a look 
of  real  suffering  in  her  blue  eyes.  She  had  hurt  her 
ankle  in  running  up  and  down  the  mountain  roads 
with  the  other  children.  I felt  sorry  for  the  poor 
phild,  as  it  was  evident  that  her  sprained  ankle 
would  have  little  care  in  this  itinerant  household. 
We  were  glad  that  the  tired  company  had  the  mild 
evening  air  in  which  to  lie  down  and  rest. 

As  we  went  on,  the  scenery  grew  wilder  and  the 
road  grew  rougher.  Something  ailed  our  machine, 
too.  It  transpired  that  we  had  a bad  spark  plug 
and  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  return  to  Ray- 
mond and  have  things  put  right  in  the  little  gar- 
age there.  We  did  so  and  then  we  made  the  foolish 
mistake  of  deciding  to  go  on,  although  the  shadows 


94  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


were  deepening,  toward  Wawona.  So  once  more 
we  climbed  the  narrow,  rutted  mountain  road.  It 
was  astonishing  how  fast  the  twilight  fell.  We  had 
thought  that  we  still  had  a good  hour  before  dark- 
ness came  on,  but  it  grew  dark  alarmingly  fast, 
and  we  were  soon  driving  along  in  forest  blackness 
over  the  uneven  road.  We  kept  the  horn  going  for 
fear  of  meeting  something  around  the  sharp  cor- 
ners which  were  so  numerous,  but  the  road  was  ut- 
terly lonely.  Tall  pines  stood  close  to  the  road- 
side, the  lamps  of  the  motor  throwing  a light  here 
and  there  upon  their  massive  trunks.  Clusters  of 
manzanita  branches  brushed  against  our  machine, 
the  light  flashing  upon  them,  showing  their  lovely 
green  leaves  arranged  like  shining  rosettes  around 
their  wine-colored  stems.  Everything  was  wet 
with  recent  rain  and  wonderfully  beautiful  as  the 
light  of  the  lamps  flashed  here  and  there.  At  last 
we  passed  a little  cottage  by  the  roadside.  There 
was  a dim  light  in  the  house.  The  door  opened  and 
the  flgure  of  a man  appeared  dark  against  the 
background  of  the  lighted  room.  We  called  out 
to  him  and  asked  how  much  farther  Miami  Lodge 
was.  “Just  a few  miles,”  he  said,  and  very  kindly 
offered  to  telephone  to  the  Lodge  that  we  were  com- 


Summit  of  Pass  between  Raymond  and  Wawona,  entering  Yosemite  Valley.  2.  Miami  Lodge, 

on  way  to  Yosemite. 


library 
OF  THE 

university  of  ILUHOlb 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  95 


ing,  so  they  would  have  some  supper  for  us.  It 
seemed  a long  distance  to  us  as  we  crept  cautiously 
around  the  shoulder  of  the  mountain,  down  steep 
pitches  and  up  long  slopes.  But  at  last  we  saw 
the  welcome  lights  of  the  Lodge.  How  pleasant 
it  was  to  see  an  open  fire  in  the  sitting  room,  to  eat 
a hot  supper  in  the  delightful  dining  room,  and  to 
find  a dainty  sleeping  room  furnished  with  a wo- 
man’s taste.  Miami  Lodge  is  a half-way  house 
between  Raymond  and  Wawona.  It  is  an  ideal 
resting  spot  for  people  who  love  the  pine  woods 
and  the  quiet  and  solitude  of  the  forest. 

In  the  morning  we  were  on  our  way  to  the  Big 
Trees.  We  decided  to  leave  our  car  at  a humble 
but  very  pleasant  little  forest  inn  called  Fish  Camp 
Hotel,  presided  over  by  some  Maine  people  who 
long  ago  left  the  pines  of  Maine  for  the  pines  of 
California.  They  have  a moimtain  ranch  which 
they  leave  in  the  summer  to  come  up  into  the  higher 
forests  and  to  keep  a little  hostel  and  grocery  store. 
It  is  a long  walk  from  Fish  Camp  Hotel  to  the 
boundary  fence  of  the  National  Park  where  the 
famous  Big  Trees  are.  If  one  prefers  to  drive 
one’s  car  over  a somewhat  rocky  but  perfectly  pas- 
sable mountain  road  and  to  leave  it  just  outside 


96  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


the  fence,  one  can  do  so.  In  this  way,  one’s  walk- 
ing powers  are  kept  fresh  for  the  memorable  expe- 
dition among  the  Big  Trees.  One  needs  a long 
day  in  which  to  see  the  Trees.  We  felt  sorry  for 
the  tourists  who  were  being  driven  about  and 
who  had  only  an  allotted  time  in  which  to  see  the 
Trees.  We  had  our  luncheon  with  us  and  were  in- 
dependent. We  walked  miles  along  the  Park 
drives.  We  stood  under  the  Trees,  of  which  there 
are  some  five  hundred,  gazing  up  at  their  distant 
tops.  We  amused  ourselves  by  measuring  their 
enormous  girths  with  our  arms.  Most  of  the  time 
we  simply  gazed  at  them  from  one  vantage  point 
and  another,  lost  in  wonder  at  their  height,  so  much 
greater  than  we  had  dreamed,  and  at  their  bulk,  so 
enormous  as  to  be  difficult  to  take  in.  The  Big 
Trees  were  far  bigger,  far  grander,  far  more  beau- 
tiful in  their  coloring  than  we  had  been  prepared 
for.  When  the  afternoon  sunlight  struck  their 
trunks  and  they  glowed  with  the  wonderful  soft, 
deep  red  which  is  their  color,  we  were  enchanted. 
We  felt  awed,  too,  not  only  by  their  great  size,  but 
by  their  great  age.  We  were  in  the  presence  of 
hoary  old  men,  a detached  little  company  of  An- 
cients who  were  living  long,  long  before  our  gen- 


Camp  Ahwahnee,  Yosemite  Valley.  2.  Grizzly  Giant,  Mariposa  Big  Trees.  3.  Yosemite  Falls. 

4.  Cabin  in  Mariposa  Grove. 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  97 

eration  ever  came  upon  the  scene,  and  who  had 
passed  through  much  of  the  world’s  history.  It 
was  with  a glowing  sense  of  satisfaction  and  happi- 
ness and  wonder  that  we  came  away  from  our  leis- 
urely day  among  the  Trees.  Some  day  we  hope  to 
go  back  and  to  repeat  that  experience. 

We  met  later  a gentleman  who  said  that  he  had 
spent  such  a day,  had  had  a supper  with  the  forest 
keeper  who  sells  photographs  and  souvenirs  in  his 
little  cottage,  and  then  had  lain  down  to  sleep  on 
the  pine  needles  under  the  great  Trees  themselves. 
“I  saw  the  stars  pinnacled  in  their  branches,” 
said  he. 

We  had  a comfortable  night  at  Fish  Camp  Ho- 
tel, our  fellow  guests  at  the  next  table  being  a party 
of  Scotch  stone-cutters  who  had  come  up  for  a hol- 
iday from  the  granite  quarry  at  Raymond  where 
they  were  quarrying  and  shaping  stones  for  some 
Sacramento  public  buildings.  Bagpipes  came  out 
in  the  evening  and  the  air  was  full  of  Scotch  music 
and  Scotch  jokes.  The  next  morning  we  drove  on 
to  Wawona,  passing  over  the  height  of  the  grade 
and  descending  a little  to  come  into  the  lovely  Wa- 
wona meadows,  in  whose  midst  stands  the  old  white 
wooden  hotel  which  has  dispensed  delightful  hospi- 


98  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


tality  under  the  same  landlords  for  forty  years 
past.  Mr.  Washburn  is  the  only  one  left  of  the 
brothers  who  built  up  the  Wawona  Hotel,  and  his 
son  now  bears  the  burden  of  the  hotel  administra- 
tion. 

People  are  always  coming  and  going  at  Wa- 
wona. They  are  either  on  their  way  to  the  Yosem- 
ite;  or  having  seen  the  Yosemite  they  are  on  their 
way  out  with  a look  at  the  Big  Trees,  eight  miles 
away,  as  they  pass  by.  We  left  our  machine  at  the 
Wawona  garage  and  took  the  12  o’clock  stage 
drawn  by  four  splendid  horses,  to  drive  through  the 
meadow  and  along  the  mountain  for  thirty  miles  to 
the  Yosemite  Valley.  Later,  the  Wawona  road 
was  to  be  opened  to  motor  travel.  But  the  leis- 
urely way  of  approach  by  the  stage  was  very  agree- 
able. The  drive  ran  through  the  forest.  We  saw 
a pheasant  in  the  bracken  by  the  roadside  with  her 
brood  of  little  ones.  She  walked  with  her  head  high, 
affecting  a careless  dignity  to  hide  her  anxiety, 
while  her  babies  crouched  close  to  the  ground  and 
looked  like  little  brown  dots  as  they  skimmed  along. 

In  the  late  afternoon,  we  saw  a coyote  out  for  his 
supper.  Our  stage  driver  cracked  his  whip  at  him 
and  shouted  his  contempt.  We  saw  the  beautiful 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  99 


deer  cross  and  recross  the  road,  coming  down  to 
their  drinking  places.  They  are  protected  by  the 
State  and  come  and  go  with  only  the  mountain  lion 
to  frighten  them.  And  at  last  after  twenty  miles 
of  drive  through  tall  pines  we  came  to  the  famous 
Inspiration  Point  where  the  first  view  of  the  Val- 
ley burst  upon  us.  We  had  been  driving  over  a 
high  plateau,  and  now  we  were  to  descend  more  than 
a thousand  feet  into  the  deep  cut  which  forms  the 
Yosemite.  Our  stage  driver  evidently  took  a gen- 
uine pleasure,  the  pleasure  of  the  showman,  in  rein- 
ing up  his  horses  at  the  psychological  moment  and 
allowing  us  to  drink  in  the  view  that  hurst  dramat- 
ically upon  us.  There  was  the  green  level  floor  of 
the  Valley  far  below  us;  there  was  El  Capitan  ris- 
ing in  massive  grandeur,  a sheer  wall  of  rock,  in 
evening  greys  and  lavenders,  above  the  Valley; 
there  was  the  Bridal  Veil — a silver  thread  of  water 
falling  six  hundred  feet.  And  beyond  were  the 
Valley  walls  rising  in  the  distance.  In  my  opinion 
everyone  who  wishes  to  have  the  most  striking  en- 
trance to  the  Yosemite  should  come  in  by  the  Wa-  / 
wona  road,  and  have  the  great  view  at  Inspiration 
Point  fire  the  imagination  first.  A little  lower 
down,  we  came  again  on  the  winding  road  to  the 


100  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


same  view,  only  from  a lower  vantage  point  and 
therefore  more  intimate.  This  point  is  known  as 
Artists’  Point;  and  after  this  we  were  hurrying 
down  the  mountain  slope,  the  eager  horses  well 
aware  that  they  were  approaching  food  and  rest. 

Soon  we  were  on  the  Valley  floor,  walls  rising  to 
the  left  and  right  of  us,  and  ahead  of  us.  Behind 
us  was  the  way  out  of  the  Valley  and  above  us  was 
the  mountain  road  by  which  we  had  just  come 
down.  Tourists  were  dropped  at  various  camps, 
and  we  drove  on  to  Camp  Curry,  the  last  stopping 
point  of  the  stage.  The  Yosemite  Valley  is  some- 
what hke  a blind  alley.  It  has  but  one  entrance  on 
the  level  of  the  Valley  floor.  As  you  drive  to  the 
farther  end  of  the  Valley,  you  become  aware  that 
you  are  approaching  nearer  and  nearer  to  moun- 
tain walls,  and  ere  long  you  are  literally  against  a 
barrier,  all  the  way  from  a thousand  to  three  or 
four  thousand  feet  in  height.  Anyone  who  would 
leave  the  Yosemite  by  other  than  the  entrance  on 
the  VaUey  level  at  its  one  end  must  climb.  Camp 
Curry  has  the  great  advantage  of  being  located  in 
the  closed  end  of  the  valley  and  thus  very  near  to 
many  of  the  mountain  trails.  Its  proprietor  and 
landlord  has  built  up  Camp  Curry  to  be  the  big. 


1.  Driving  Home  the  Cows.  2.  Meeting  in  the  Great  American  Desert. 
3.  Bridal  Veil  from  Artist’s  Point,  Yosemite  Valley. 


library 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSfiy  Or  ILLINOI 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  101 


cosmopolitan,  happy,  democratic  settlement  that  it 
now  is.  The  food  in  the  dining  pavilion  is  plain  but 
well  cooked,  and  abundantly  served  in  family  fash- 
ion. The  little  tents  with  their  two  single  beds  are 
very  comfortable.  The  camp  fire  at  night,  around 
which  almost  the  entire  camp  assembles  in  that  in- 
timacy and  yet  detachment,  which  belongs  to  those 
who  dream  before  a camp  fire,  is  the  heart  of  the 
camp  life,  where  Mr.  Curry  gives  nightly  a family 
talk  on  trees,  rocks,  flowers,  and  trails.  Hot  water 
is  a plentiful  luxury  at  Camp  Curry,  and  the  host 
often  says,  “Camp  Curry  is  on  the  water  wagon,  but 
it  is  a hot  water  wagon.” 

“A  year  ago,”  says  Mr.  Curry,  “we  put  up  10,000 
lunches — ^that  meant  20,000  wooden  plates,  and 
some  50,000  pieces  of  white  tissue  paper.  You  can 
see  how  necessary  it  is  to  burn  or  bury  your  limch- 
eon  papers  when  you  have  eaten  your  lunch  on  the 
trails,  or  in  the  forests.” 

Never  in  any  other  place  in  the  United  States 
have  I heard  so  much  talk  of  tramps  and  trails  as 
at  Camp  Curry  in  the  Yosemite  Valley.  Most 
Americans  seem  to  be  too  indolent  or  too  unused 
to  walking  to  have  the  enthusiasm  of  the  trampers 
and  the  mountain  climbers  whom  one  meets  in  Eu- 


102  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


rope.  But  I felt  that  I was  back  in  the  atmosphere 
of  the  Tyrol  and  of  Switzerland  when  I reached 
Camp  Curry  and  saw  the  people  starting  off  in  the 
morning  for  long  days  of  walking  and  climbing. 
“I  arrived  at  Camp  Curry  late  in  the  afternoon  just 
as  the  people  were  coming  from  their  day’s  walks,” 
said  a young  lady  to  me.  “I  thought  I had  never 
seen  such  disreputable  looking  people.  Their  boots 
were  muddy,  their  hair  was  dishevelled,  their  faces 
were  flushed  and  sunburnt.  But  in  a day  or  two  I 
was  coming  in  from  long  walks  in  just  the  same 
condition  myself.”  But  who  that  can  walk  and 
climb  would  forego  the  thrilling  pleasure  of  the 
long  climb  to  Glacier  Point,  and  the  long  climb  past 
Nevada  and  Vernal  Falls,  and  down  again  into  the 
Valley?  Who  would  miss  the  long  climb  up  to  the 
.Yosemite  Falls,  where  one  from  a perilous  and  yet 
protected  vantage  point  just  above  the  Falls  sees 
that  great  volume  of  water  launch  itself  for  the 
awful  plunge  into  the  air,  and  so  down  into  the 
Valley?  Fortunately,  there  are  sturdy  mules  and 
horses,  sure-footed  and  plodding,  for  those  who 
prefer  riding  to  climbing.  No  one  need  miss  the 
truly  grand  experience  of  the  view  from  Glacier 
Point,  where  by  staying  over  night  at  the  hotel  one 


0^ 


Of 


\' 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  103 


may  have  both  sunset  and  sunrise.  What  a world 
of  mountains  one  looks  out  upon!  There  is  Half 
Dome,  looking  as  if  a gigantic  hand  had  thrust  it 
up  through  the  earth  and  into  the  air,  leaving  its 
other  half  far,  far  below.  There  stretches  before 
one  a vast,  upper  country  of  irregular  table  lands 
and  peaks,  many  still  white  with  snow.  One  is 
really  looking  far  out  over  the  remote  regions  of 
the  snowy,  pine-covered,  high  Sierras. 

We  took  a day  for  a long  excursion  to 
Cloud’s  Rest.  This  meant  twenty-two  miles  of 
mule  riding,  but  it  also  meant  an  even  more  com- 
prehensive and  exalted  view  from  the  mountain’s 
top,  of  frozen  lakes  below,  deep  canyons,  lofty 
mountain  peaks  where  storms  were  raging  far  away, 
and  solitary  table  lands.  Only  people  of  endur- 
ance can  take  such  a jaunt,  as  one’s  joints  grow 
very  weary  and  aching  from  the  slow  riding  hour 
after  hour.  When  we  were  at  Camp  Curry,  a party 
of  some  forty  Germans,  men  and  women,  were 
there  for  the  pleasure  of  “doing”  the  entire  Valley. 
N o climb  was  too  hard  for  them.  They  were  known 
as  the  “German  climbing  bunch.”  Every  morning 
one  might  see  them  with  their  paper  bags  of  lunch- 
eon and  their  climbing-sticks,  walking  gaily  along 


104  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


to  the  beginning  of  some  one  of  the  mountains 
trails.  They  entertained  us  at  the  evening  camp 
fire  with  their  German  songs,  and  were  altogether 
an  energetic  and  genial  company. 

The  open  air  life  and  the  grandeur  of  the  trails 
were  very  hard  to  leave,  but  we  came  away  one  noon 
and  once  more  drove  back  to  Wawona.  There  we 
were  detained  for  a week  by  a break  in  the  car.  We 
started  out  one  morning  when  the  rain  was  pouring 
to  take  the  Mariposa  road.  We  found  that  with 
no  chains  and  with  the  machine  slipping  and  slid- 
ing on  the  steep  clay  road,  progress  would  be  im- 
possible. I tried  to  help  the  matter  by  putting 
freshly  cut  branches  of  odorous  balsam  fir  under 
the  wheels  to  help  them  grip.  I walked  behind  the 
machine  with  a log,  throwing  it  under  the  wheels 
as  they  advanced  foot  by  foot,  T.  fighting  at  the 
steering  wheel  like  the  pilot  of  a drifting  ship. 
!]^ut  it  was  impossible  to  make  headway.  We  met 
some  teamsters  who  had  evidently  been  taking 
something  hot  to  counteract  the  discomfort  of  their 
wet  exteriors.  One  said  solemnly  of  the  sun  when 
we  expressed  a wish  that  it  would  appear,  “Yes, 
the  sun  is  our  father,  and  our  step-father.”  Then 
he  added,  “I’d  worship  the  sun  if  I were  a heathen. 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  105 


I kinder  do,  now.”  He  went  on  irrelevantly,  “I  do 
think  Roosevelt’s  one  of  the  best  men  we’ve  got. 
I do  think  so.  I do  so.”  We  were  close  to  a de- 
serted logging  camp,  which  looked  doubly  melan- 
choly in  the  falling  rain.  There  was  the  deserted 
runway,  there  were  the  empty  cottages,  with  broken 
windows  and  doors  swinging  open.  Back  of  the 
cottages  were  piles  of  tin  cans.  One  cottage  still 
bore  its  old  name,  “Idle  Burg.”  All  about  were 
blooming  columbines  and  the  odorous  balsam. 

There  W'as  nothing  for  it  but  to  go  back  to  Wa- 
wona,  which  we  did.  When  we  reached  there,  we 
found  that  we  had  a broken  spring.  We  spent 
several  days  waiting  for  a new  spring  to  come  up 
from  Raymond.  In  the  meantime  we  discovered 
the  loveliness  of  the  Wawona  meadows  and  ex- 
plored the  walks  about  the  hotel.  We  went  down 
to  the  blacksmith  shop  to  see  the  big  stage  horses 
shod  and  the  smith  handle  them  as  if  they  were  his 
children.  “California  is  God’s  country,”  said  he. 
“I  came  here  forty  years  ago,  but  I aint  done  much 
for  myself  imtil  the  last  two  or  three  years.”  At 
last  the  motor  car  was  ready,  and  we  had  once  more 
a drive  through  the  forest,  stopping  for  a delightful 
dinner  and  evening  at  Miami  Lodge.  The  next 


106  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


day  we  were  dropping  down  from  the  high  Sierras 
by  the  Mariposa  road.  Turning  to  the  right,  be- 
fore reaching  Raymond,  the  foothills  of  the  Sierras 
made  very  rough,  broken  country  for  travel,  and 
our  road  was  indifferent.  We  passed  poor  httle 
ranches  dropped  in  among  the  rocks  and  gulleys. 
We  saw  lonely  looking  women  sitting  on  the 
porches  of  unpainted  wooden  ranch  houses,  and 
finally  we  came  to  Mariposa,  which  reminded  me 
of  Bret  Harte  more  than  any  other  place  I had  seen 
in  California. 

Mariposa  is  a mining  town  from  which  the  miners 
have  departed.  In  mining  days  it  was  a busy  cen- 
ter, with  miners  eating  and  drinking,  and  walking 
up  and  down  its  little  street.  But  some  of  the  mines 
have  been  closed,  the  miners  have  gone  to  other  dis- 
tricts, and  the  town  is  left  high  and  dry.  A few 
men  were  hanging  idly  about  in  front  of  the  dreary 
looking  little  stores.  The  two  places  that  seemed 
to  be  alive  were  a general  department  store  kept  by 
an  Italian,  and  a little  restaurant  kept  by  a China- 
man. We  bought  our  gasoline  from  Mr.  Trabucco 
and  went  in  to  have  some  tea  at  John  Chinaman’s 
place.  He  was  a shrewd  looking,  middle-aged  Chi- 
naman in  a,  very  pessimistic  mood.  “You  see  dis 


!| 

! 


In  the  Lower 


I 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  107 


town?  You  see  more’n  I do,”  he  said  sadly.  We 
assured  him  that  we  saw  very  little  town.  Indeed, 
Mariposa  is  just  the  sad  little  shell  of  a town  from 
which  most  of  the  life  has  moved  away,  leaving  the 
dingy  little  wooden  buildings  along  the  dusty 
street.  Our  Chinaman  charged  us  fifteen  cents 
apiece  for  a single  cup  of  tea,  flanked  by  some  very 
stale  store  cookies,  which  he  took  from  the  show 
window.  He  evidently  felt  that  he  should  make  hay 
while  the  sun  was  shining.  From  Mariposa,  we  had 
a long  afternoon  drive  over  lonely,  rolling  covm- 
try  to  Snelling.  When  we  reached  its  one  little 
hotel,  we  found  that  we  were  too  late  for  supper. 
California  has  an  eight  hour  law,  and  domestic  ser- 
vants cannot  be  kept  over  time.  In  large  hotels 
they  have  different  shifts;  but  in  coimtry  places 
the  landlord  must  let  his  cook  go  at  the  ap- 
pointed time.  However,  our  host  was  disposed  to 
be  accommodating.  “The  missus  and  I are  always 
here,”  he  said,  and  went  over  to  buy  a bit  of  steak 
for  our  supper.  We  were  very  tired  after  the  ex- 
tremely rough  driving  in  the  foothills,  and  slept 
heavily. 

Snelling  lies  in  a valley  where  there  is  evidently 
plenty  of  warmth  and  water.  The  fig  trees  are 


108  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


wonderfully  luxuriant.  We  passed  some  beautiful 
grain  ranches  the  next  morning  and  so  came  to 
Stockton,  where  at  the  Hotel  Stockton  we  saw  the 
red,  white,  and  blue  sign  that  was  to  guide  us  across 
the  continent.  We  were  at  last  on  the  Lincoln 
Highway,  the  old  road  with  the  new  name  which 
rims  from  ocean  to  ocean  and  which  is  destined  to 
be  one  of  the  famous  highways  of  the  world. 

The  Stockton  Inn  is  a beautiful  modern  hostel, 
European  in  plan,  with  every  convenience,  not  to 
say  luxury.  One  should  go  up  on  its  roof  garden 
for  an  afternoon  cup  of  tea  just  for  the  pleasure  of 
looking  down  on  the  San  Joaquin  River,  whose 
headwaters  run  up  into  the  town.  Boats  lie  all 
along  the  piers,  and  it  looks  very  like  a bit  of 
Holland.  I could  have  easily  believed  that  I was 
looking  down  on  an  Amsterdam  canal  from 
the  roof  garden  of  the  Stockton  Hotel.  All 
through  California,  but  more  particularly  between 
Monterey  and  Los  Angeles  and  along  the  coast, 
we  had  seen  workmen  tramping  from  place  to  place, 
sometimes  alone,  usually  in  bands  of  six  or  seven. 
They  carried  their  blankets  rolled  on  their  backs, 
and  many  of  them  were  clear-eyed,  respectable 
looking  men.  We  saw  one  such  man  in  Stockton 


Hotel.  2.  Head  of  San  Joaquin  River, 


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OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  109 


on  his  way  to  take  the  river  boat.  He  had  his 
blanket  on  his  back,  and  he  wore  a somewhat  bat- 
tered straw  hat.  His  trousers  were  ragged,  and 
he  looked  as  if  he  had  tramped  many  a weary  mile. 
He  was  tall  and  bony,  with  a sandy  beard.  I took 
him  to  be  a Scot.  I was  so  anxious  to  help  the  poor 
fellow  out  that  I urged  T.  to  speak  to  him  and  offer 
him  a suit  of  clothes.  To  our  surprise  the  man  re- 
fused them  in  a very  free  and  easy,  genial  way.  “O, 
nay,  thank  you,”  he  said,  “I’m  doin’  all  right.” 

Stockton  is  a city  with  wide  streets,  an  open 
plaza,  and  a Comthouse  surrounded  by  a bor- 
der of  green  lawn  and  pahn  trees.  I saw  a tur- 
baned  Hindoo  lying  asleep  under  a palm  tree  in 
the  afternoon  sun  on  the  Courthouse  lawn.  White 
men  lay  asleep  near  him.  It  was  at  Stockton  that 
we  saw  our  first  rodeo  or  roimd-up.  The  rodeo  is 
a part  professional  and  part  amateur  Wild-West 
show.  The  cowboys  wear  their  gayest  shirts,  of 
red  and  pink  and  variegated  silks.  They  wear  their 
handsomest  “chaps”  or  riding  trousers,  cut  very 
wide,  and  made  of  buckskin  or  of  sheepskin  with 
the  wool  side  out.  They  have  on  their  widest- 
brimmed,  highest  crowned  sombreros  and  their 
most  ornately  stitched  boots.  The  cowgirls  are 


110  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


in  brown  or  grey  velveteen,  or  perhaps  in  khaki. 
They,  too,  wear  broad-brimmed  hats  and  riding 
boots  with  spurs.  Some  of  them  wear  red  silk  hand- 
kerchiefs knotted  about  their  necks.  We  saw  such 
an  exhibition  of  cattle  lassoing  and  of  roping  and 
throwing  steers,  of  rope  spinning  and  of  trick  rid- 
ing as  we  had  never  before  seen.  Doubtless  it  is  an 
old  story  for  Californians,  but  it  was  all  new  and 
interesting  to  us.  The  most  interesting  feat  was 
the  roping  and  throwing  of  a steer.  Two  men  ride 
down  the  steer,  and  as  one  of  them  approaches  the 
beast  he  slips  off  his  horse  and  catches  the  steer 
with  a lightning  stroke  around  his  neck.  He  en- 
deavors by  casting  his  weight  on  the  beast’s  neck 
and  by  dexterously  twisting  it  to  throw  the  animal. 
Usually  he  succeeds;  but  sometimes  a stubborn 
beast  refuses  to  be  taken  by  surprise,  plants  his 
feet  firmly,  and  lowers  his  dangerous  horns.  Then 
follows  a locked  struggle,  and  it  is  a serious  matter 
for  the  cattleman  if  his  hold  slips. 


and  2.  Cowboy  Rodeo,  Stockton,  Cal.  3.  Hereford  Bull,  Wyoming.  4.  Cowboy  Rodeo, 

Laramie,  Wyoming. 


/ 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  111 


CHAPTER  VII 

When  we  left  Stockton  we  felt  that  the  great 
adventure  had  really  begun.  We  were  now  to  tra- 
verse the  Lincoln  Highway  and  were  to  be  guided 
by  the  red,  white,  and  blue  marks;  sometimes 
painted  on  telephone  poles,  sometimes  put  up  by 
way  of  advertisement  over  garage  doors  or  swing- 
ing on  hotel  signboards;  sometimes  painted  on  lit- 
tle stakes,  like  croquet  goals,  scattered  along  over 
the  great  spaces  of  the  desert.  We  learned  to  love 
the  red,  white,  and  blue,  and  the  familiar  big  L 
which  told  us  that  we  were  on  the  right  road.  Had 
we  taken  the  Lincoln  Highway  literally  from  ocean 
to  ocean,  we  should  have  driven  direct  from  San 
Francisco  to  Stockton.  As  it  was  we  saw  Cali- 
fornia first,  and  came  in  at  Stockton. 

It  was  a bright,  sunny  day,  the  thirteenth  of 


112  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


June,  when  we  left  Stockton  for  Sacramento.  We 
drove  along  an  excellent  asphalt  road,  through 
grain  fields  and  orchards,  the  almond  orchards 
being  loaded  with  their  green,  velvety  fruit.  It 
was  late  afternoon  when  we  reached  our  hostel,  the 
Sacramento  Hotel.  Sacramento  is  even  to-day 
more  or  less  a frontier  town.  Judging  by  appear- 
ances, there  are  more  saloons  in  proportion  to  the 
other  shops  of  Sacramento  than  in  any  other  town 
in  California,  unless  it  he  San  Francisco.  The  town 
is  well  shaded.  One  sees  many  wooden  buildings  of 
old-fashioned  architecture,  the  old  mansard  roof  be- 
ing much  in  evidence.  A most  pleasant  spot  in  Sac- 
ramento is  the  beautifully  kept  park  around  the  fine 
State  House.  Its  walks  are  shaded  by  a fine  row 
of  palms,  another  of  magnolias  which  were  in  full 
bloom,  and  yet  another  of  beautiful  old  cedars.  I 
liked  the  “Sacramento  Bee”  building  which  has  two 
interesting  has  reliefs  of  printers  of  the  Middle 
Ages  working  a hand  press.  Sacramento  is  very 
hot  in  summer,  its  stone  pavements  and  asphalt 
streets  radiating  heat  like  an  open  oven. 

Leaving  Sacramento,  we  drove  across  rolling 
plains,  mostly  grain  fields,  to  Folsom.  From  Fol- 
som to  the  busy  little  town  of  Placerville  we  had 


Philips  Hotel  on  Lincoln  Highway  near  Lake  Tahoe.  2.  View  on  Lake  Tahoe.  3.  Looking  up 
Yosemite  Valley.  4.  Upper  Yosemite  Falls. 


OF  THE 
UNlVERSiTY  OF 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  113 


more  broken  country  and  a decidedly  bumpy  road. 
We  found  the  drive  from  Folsom  to  Placerville 
uninteresting,  the  forest  being  scrubby,  the  road 
dry  and  dusty.  As  soon  as  we  left  Placerville  we 
came  into  beautiful  coimtry.  We  had  stretches  of 
distant  mountain  views  and  magnificent  wooded 
hills  all  about  us.  A mountain  stream,  the  Ameri- 
can River,  green  and  foaming,  roared  alongside 
the  road.  The  road  was  in  excellent  condition  and 
ran  on  through  the  forest  for  miles,  flanked  by 
sugar  pines,  cedars,  firs,  balsams,  and  yellow  pines. 
Squirrels  darted  back  and  forth  in  front  of  us.  The 
wild  white  lilac  was  blooming  at  the  roadside. 
Ascending  hour  by  hour,  we  passed  several  pleas- 
ant-looking  mountain  inns  and  came  at  last  to 
Phillips’,  a simple  place  where  they  gave  us,  out- 
side the  main  house,  a tiny  cottage  all  to  ourselves. 
It  had  one  room  and  from  its  door  we  looked 
straight  away  into  the  forest.  They  gave  us  some 
beefsteak,  some  fried  potatoes,  some  canned  corn, 
carrots,  cake,  custard,  and  tea  for  our  supper. 

We  left  our  door  open  at  night,  that  the  fresh 
mountain  air  might  come  in  freely.  I awoke  early 
in  the  morning  and  saw  the  first  lights  on  the  hills. 
Away  off  in  the  forest  I heard  a hermit  thrush  call- 


114  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


ing.  After  breakfast  we  drove  along  through  pine 
forest,  the  snow  on  the  hills  not  very  far  away,  and 
soon  came  to  the  summit  of  the  Pass,  7395  feet.  A 
party  in  a Reo  car  had  been  over  the  Pass  three 
weeks  earlier,  toiling  through  the  snow,  and  had 
posted  several  signs,  painted  in  flamboyant  red: 
“First  car  up  May  25,  1914.”  Below  us  was  the 
marshy  valley  surrounding  the  southern  end  of 
Lake  Tahoe.  We  saw  the  exquisite  green  of  these 
watery  meadows  and  the  lovely  clumps  of  pines 
growing  here  and  there  in  the  valley.  Beyond 
stretched  the  great  lake  surrounded  by  lofty  moun- 
tains— a glorious  view.  We  drove  carefully  down 
the  steep  hiU  on  to  the  plain  and  past  Meyers.  The 
road  was  very  sandy,  and  as  we  drove  among  the 
pine  trees  it  was  in  some  places  so  narrow  that  the 
hubs  of  our  machine  just  cleared  the  tree  trunks. 
We  went  flrst  to  Tallac,  where  there  is  a very  pleas- 
ant hotel  on  the  lake.  But  it  was  full  and  we  turned 
back  to  A1  Tahoe,  a hotel  in  a great  open  space  at 
the  southern  end  of  the  lake,  with  pine  trees  scat- 
tered here  and  there,  and  a little  colony  of  cottages 
outside  the  main  building.  We  established  our- 
selves in  one  of  these  cottages,  a one-room  house 
with  three  wooden  sides  and  a long  curtain  across  its 


Mountain  Stream  in  California.  2.  Fallen  Leaf  Lake,  near  Lake  Tahoe.  3.  Mountains 

around  Lake  Tahoe. 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  115 


open  side.  The  fourth  side  of  the  building  had  been 
literally  lifted  up  and  was  supported  by  wooden 
props.  In  this  way  it  became  a roof  for  the  little 
platform  of  boards  which  stretched  in  front  of  the 
cottage  "nd  a sheltered  porch  was  thus  improvised. 
At  night  we  drew  our  calico  curtain  across  the  open 
front  of  our  cottage,  and  so  slept  practically  in  the 
open  air. 

From  A1  Tahoe  one  can  make  many  excursions 
on  foot  or  by  boat.  As  there  was  still  snow  on  the 
road  we  did  not  undertake  the  motor  drive  from  A1 
Tahoe  "n  Tahoe  Tavern  and  Donner  Lake.  We 
did  drive  the  nine  or  ten  miles  of  mountain  road  to 
Fallen  Leaf  Lake,  which  is  a most  exquisite  moun- 
tain lake  right  under  the  shadow  of  Mt.  Tallac. 
The  trails  from  the  hotel  at  Fallen  Leaf  Lake  are 
very  numerous  and  attract  many  enthusiastic  moun- 
tain climbers.  The  first  rain  that  we  had  exper- 
ienced in  all  our  long  journey  we  had  at  A1  Tahoe. 
When  we  left  our  hotel  early  in  the  morning  to 
drive  to  Carson  City  the  rain  was  still  falling,  but 
it  cleared  within  an  hour  after  our  start,  and  we  had 
no  more  rain  until  we  reached  Ohio.  Lake  Tahoe 
on  our  left  was  wonderfully  beautiful  in  the  morn- 
ing light.  The  rich  manzanita  and  other  bushes 


116  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


were  shining  with  moisture,  the  tall  pines  were  re- 
flected in  the  clear  depths  of  the  lake,  the  shores 
were  wild  and  lonely.  The  road  rose  high  above 
the  lake,  and  in  one  or  two  places  ran  along  the 
edge  of  a precipitous  cliff.  After  leaving  the  lake 
we  came  into  a rather  desolate  mountain  region 
where  the  whole  character  of  the  country  changed. 
The  road  was  a narrow  shelf  along  a barren,  rocky 
mountain  side.  There  were  but  few  trees.  The 
color  of  the  rock  and  of  patches  of  brilliant  yellow 
flowers,  growing  along  the  roadside,  gave  variety 
to  the  landscape.  Otherwise  it  was  somewhat 
dreary  and  forbidding  after  the  rich  forest  foliage 
that  we  had  just  left  along  the  lake. 

As  we  rounded  mountain  shoulder  after  shoulder 
we  began  to  look  off  into  green  cultivated  farming 
valleys.  Next  we  were  coming  down  a steep  hill 
and  into  Nevada’s  little  capital  town  of  Carson 
City.  The  Capitol  building  stands  at  the  foot  of 
this  long  hill  road,  and  as  one  approaches  from  the 
top  of  the  hill  it  looks  as  if  one  must  drive  straight 
through  the  Capitol.  But  the  road  turns  sharply 
to  the  left  as  one  reaches  the  Capitol  street.  This 
one  long  street  with  its  hotel,  its  pleasant  shops,  and 


Lincoln  Highway  near  Donner  Lake.  Donner  Lake  in  distance. 


4 


of 

w.ai'' 


I' 


by;  the  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY;  117 

its  Capitol  is  about  all  there  is  of  the  town.  We 
drove  through  the  town  straight  on  to  Reno. 

Reno  is  a pleasant  town,  nobly  situated  on  a high 
plateau  with  lofty  mountains  towering  near.  The 
Truckee  River  flows  straight  down  from  the  heart 
of  the  snows  through  the  center  of  the  town  and  is 
spanned  by  a handsome  bridge.  The  substantial 
Riverside  Hotel  stands  on  the  bank  of  the  river 
near  the  bridge.  Somehow  my  impressions  of  Reno 
all  seem  to  cluster  around  the  swift  river  and  the 
bridge.  The  library,  the  hotel,  the  Y.  M.  C.  A., 
and  other  public  buildings  are  close  to  the  river. 
If  you  walk  up  the  river  you  come  to  a little  island 
in  the  center  of  the  rushing  stream  which  is  a tiny 
Coney  Island  for  the  Reno  residents  during  the 
summer.  Bridges  are  flung  from  bank  to  island 
on  both  sides  of  the  river.  High  above  the  river 
rise  the  houses  of  the  well-to-do  people  of  the  town, 
some  of  them  handsome  structures.  At  the  little 
hairdresser’s  where  I had  a shampoo  in  the  delicious 
soft  snow  water  of  the  river  they  pointed  out  to 
me  the  home  of  “om*  millionaire.”  So  I crossed  the 
river  and  went  over  and  up  to  the  higher  side  of 
the  town,  where  was  a very  beautiful  stucco  man- 


118  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


sion  surrounded  by  wide  lawns,  with  a view  over 
the  river  on  one  side  and  off  to  the  mountains  on 
the  other.  It  was  a charming  situation,  and  its 
charm  was  enhanced  for  me  by  the  fact  that  just  a 
short  distance  away,  outside  the  town,  began  the 
grey-green  desert  with  its  sage  brush  whose  pun- 
gent, aromatic  odor  was  to  be  in  my  nostrils  for  so 
many  days  to  come.  I asked  my  hairdresser  whether 
Reno  had  many  people  in  residence  waiting  for 
their  divorces.  She  said  that  the  new  law,  by  virtue 
of  which  they  must  have  a year’s  residence  in  Ne- 
vada, instead  of  the  old  period  of  six  months,  had 
cut  down,  so  to  speak,  the  business  of  divorces.  She 
assured  me  that  the  Reno  people  deplored  this  as 
formerly  the  town  was  full  of  boarders  and  lodgers 
“doing  time.”  I confess  I was  somewhat  shocked 
by  such  a sordid  point  of  view.  I found  myself 
looking  quietly  around  the  Riverside  dining  room 
to  see  whether  I could  pick  out  in  the  well  filled 
room  any  candidates  for  divorce,  and  then  I re- 
flected that  they  were  probably  looking  at  me  with 
the  same  query  in  their  minds. 

At  Reno  we  followed  our  rule  of  visiting  imi- 
versity  buildings.  We  had  seen  the  famous  State 
University  and  the  equally  famous  Stanford  Uni- 


Crossing  Mississippi  at  Clinton,  Iowa.  2.  Bridge  near  Reno. 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  119 


versity  in  California,  and  wished  to  continue  oiu: 
study  of  college  buildings  and  of  the  general  atmos- 
phere of  Western  institutions.  Unfortunately  it 
was  holiday  time,  but  we  were  shown  about  most 
courteously  by  a young  instructor.  The  Nevada 
State  University  buildings  are  modest  and  compar- 
atively few  in  number,  but  in  good  taste.  They 
have  a fine  situation  on  a high  plateau,  wind-swept 
and  mountain-surrounded,  at  the  edge  of  the  town. 
Westerners  call  these  lofty  terraces,  which  drop 
down  one  below  another  in  step  fashion  at  the  foot 
of  the  great  mountains,  benches. 

We  had  seen  the  very  noble  School  of  Mines  at 
the  University  of  California,  erected  by  Mrs. 
Hearst  to  her  husband’s  memory.  We  were  equally 
interested  in  the  smaller  but  very  pretty  building 
erected  by  Mr.  Clarence  Mackay  for  the  Univer- 
sity of  Nevada  School  of  Mines.  A striking  statue 
of  Mr.  Mackay  in  his  miner’s  dress  and  with  his 
miner’s  pick,  stands  in  front  of  the  building  and 
looks  down  the  green  lengths  of  the  open  campus. 

Our  guide  told  us  that  the  attendance  at  the 
School  of  Mines  varies  annually  with  the  fluctua- 
tions of  mining  fortunes.  In  good  years  when  the 
mines  are  doing  well,  the  University  has  between 


120  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


fifty  and  sixty  students  of  mining  engineering. 
In  poor  mining  years  the  attendance  drops  off. 
He  told  us  some  interesting  tales  of  the  “good  old 
days”  when  miners  wore  two  shirts  sewed  together 
at  the  bottom,  thus  making  a sort  of  bag,  and  helped 
themselves  liberally  to  gold  while  in  the  diggings. 
He  said  that  a miner  had  been  known  to  pay  a 
mine  foreman  a thousand  dollars  for  the  privilege 
of  working  in  a rich  corner  of  the  mine,  with  the 
result  that  he  would  be  able  to  make  up  the  price 
of  his  privilege  within  two  or  three  days.  He  ex- 
plained that  there  was  a general  rule  to  the  effect 
that  a miner  should  not  be  stripped  for  examination 
except  to  his  shirt;  with  possible  exceptions  if  he 
were  under  very  strong  suspicion. 

I was  sorry  to  come  away  from  Reno.  I liked 
the  little  town,  with  the  sound  of  the  rushing  river 
coming  in  at  my  hotel  window,  and  the  feeling  of 
space  and  freedom  that  the  high  situation  gave. 
Reno  is  4500  feet  above  sea  level. 

From  Reno  we  drove  on  to  Fallon,  a little  town 
where  we  spent  the  night.  I took  my  last  look  at 
the  high  Sierras  as  we  drove  across  the  grassy  plains 
in  leaving  Reno.  There  they  were,  still  snowy,  tow- 
ering above  the  town.  We  came  along  by  the  river. 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  121 


but  left  it  later  for  a more  or  less  hilly  road  across 
rather  barren  country.  We  stopped  at  a little 
roadside  place  where  there  was  a small  grocery  next 
to  a tiny  dwelling,  to  ask  for  some  luncheon.  The 
groceryman  was  very  dubious  and  non-committal 
and  referred  us  to  his  wife.  I had  noticed  that  at 
our  approach  she  fled  to  some  improvised  chicken 
coops  back  of  the  little  dwelling.  So  I tracked 
her  to  her  lair  and  found  the  poor  httle  thing  really 
standing  at  bay.  She  was  a small  woman,  over- 
shadowed by  an  immense  Mexican  straw  hat.  She 
said  to  me  somewhat  defiantly  and  almost  tearfully 
that  she  couldn’t  possibly  do  another,  drop  of  work. 
She  explained  that  she  had  the  railroad  men  to  care 
for  when  they  came  in  from  the  road,  and  that  she 
had  two  hundred  chickens  to  look  after.  “I  carry 
all  the  water  for  them  myself,”  she  said  tearfully. 
I looked  around  at  the  hot,  dusty  little  settlement, 
with  no  spear  of  grass,  and  felt  sorry  for  her.  I 
told  her  that  we  wouldn’t  for  the  world  inconven- 
ience her,  whereat  she  softened  and  told  me  that  if 
we  would  drive  on  to  the  next  settlement  we  could 
get  some  luncheon.  Which  we  did,  and  a very 
indifferent  luncheon  it  was.  However,  it  was 
spiced  by  an  ardent  conversation  between  T.  and 


122  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


a railroad  man  on  the  foreign  policy  of  the  present 
Administration.  A woman  looks  on  at  these  en- 
counters, into  which  men  plunge  without  a mo- 
ment’s introduction  or  hesitation,  and  into  which 
they  throw  themselves  so  earnestly,  with  admiration 
tinged  with  awe. 

As  we  drove  along  the  dusty  road  a short,  rather 
thick  snake,  its  back  marked  by  shining  black  dia- 
monds, wriggled  hurriedly  across  the  road  in  front 
of  us,  escaping  to  the  sage  brush.  I asked  later 
what  this  snake  was,  for  I felt  certain  that  it  was 
poisonous.  Sure  enough,  it  was  a diamond-backed 
rattle  snake.  We  came  soon  to  another  little  town 
where  there  was  a good  hotel.  Hanging  on  the 
wall  of  the  hotel  was  a painting  of  the  proposed 
Lahontan  Dam  and  the  country  which  its  life-giv- 
ing streams  would  touch.  We  decided,  instead  of 
going  direct  to  Fallon,  to  drive  across  country  to 
the  Dam,  making  a slight  detour.  We  were  very 
glad  that  we  did  so,  for  we  found  the  young  super- 
intendent of  the  Dam  construction,  a Brown  Uni- 
versity man,  very  courteous  indeed.  We  went  to 
look  at  the  enormous  pile  of  sand  and  clay  which 
has  been  banked  up  day  after  day  and  week  after 
week  until  the  Lahontan  Dam  is  the  largest  earth 


Smelter  near  Ely,  Nevada.  2.  Lahontan  Dam,  Nevada. 


library 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  123 


dam  in  the  world.  We  saw  cement  spillways,  one 
on  each  side  of  the  earth  dam  proper,  their  tall 
steps  planned  to  break  the  fall  of  the  water 
at  any  time  of  great  flood  and  pressure.  We 
saw  the  lake  itself  with  its  measuring  tower  and 
gate  already  sixty  feet  under  the  rising  water.  Mr. 
Tillinghast  told  us  that  the  lake  stretches  back  into 
the  hills  and  the  canyon  for  twenty  miles.  We 
heard  of  the  millions  of  fertile  acres  which  this  wa- 
ter, already  beginning  to  be  released  in  a rushing 
stream,  was  to  make  possible.  Some  miles  back 
we  had  seen  irrigated  country,  green  and  fertile, 
cut,  so  to  speak,  right  out  of  the  desert.  Alfalfa 
was  growing  luxuriantly  and  was  being  cured  in 
high  green  stacks  under  the  sun.  Settlers’  little  cot- 
tages were  a visible  promise  of  the  future,  just  as 
they  had  been  in  California.  We  congratulated 
Mr.  Tillinghast  on  his  work,  and  told  him  that  in 
days  to  come  he  should  bring  his  grandchildren  to 
see  the  Lahontan  Dam,  a splendid  monument  to  his 
work  and  the  work  of  the  men  with  him. 

We  saw  where  he  and  his  assistant  engineer  lived 
with  their  families.  They  had  small  but  comforta- 
ble quarters  made  of  houses  built  of  tar  paper. 
Some  chicken  yards  were  near,  and  an  improvised 


124  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 

tennis  court  was  in  front  of  the  little  row  of  houses. 
Near  by  was  a little  schoolhouse  for  the  children  of 
the  settlement.  Here  New  England  women,  city 
born  and  bred,  were  living  happily  with  their  chil- 
dren while  their  husbands  built  the  great  Dam. 
One  lady  told  us  that  her  relatives  in  Providence 
commiserated  her  lot.  “But,”  said  she,  “the  boys 
are  so  well  and  live  such  a free  and  happy  life  in 
this  glorious  air  that  we  really  dread  being  moved 
to  another  piece  of  work  when  the  Dam  is  finished.” 
From  Lahontan  we  picked  our  way  across  the  des- 
ert with  its  sage  brush  and  its  spaces,  to  Fallon. 

When  we  left  Fallon  we  had  before  us  a very  try- 
ing drive.  The  country  east  of  Fallon,  past  Salt 
Wells  Ranch  and  as  far  as  Sand  Springs,  was  in 
bad  condition  because  of  recent  heavy  rains.  We 
met  heavy  wagons  drawn  by  ten,  twelve,  fourteen, 
and  sometimes  sixteen  horses  and  mules,  strug- 
ghng  madly  and  almost  hopelessly  through  the 
sticky  mud.  The  drivers  were  cracking  their  whips, 
yelling  and  swearing,  and  the  poor  animals’  flanks 
and  bellies  were  thick  with  mud.  The  heavy  wag- 
ons were  piled  high  with  bales  and  boxes.  In  some 
instances  the  horses  of  one  team  were  being  unhar- 
nessed to  be  added  to  another  team  where  the  wagon 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  125 


stuck  hopelessly  in  the  mud.  A country  woman 
told  me  later  that  she  had  seen  the  horses  of  these 
trucking  teams  come  in  at  night,  their  flanks  cov- 
ered with  the  dried  blood  which  had  streamed  down 
from  the  wounds  made  by  a pitchfork  in  the  hands 
of  a desperate  and  angry  teamster  determined  to 
get  his  team  started  out  of  a mud  hole. 

We  had  an  advantage  because  of  the  broad  tires 
of  our  machine,  and  got  on  very  well  by  picking  our 
way  across  the  plain  and  keeping  well  to  the  left 
of  a long  stretch  filled  with  salt  water  holes  and 
with  a fairly  large  salt  lake.  A new  road  had  been 
made  by  travelers,  far  away  from  the  regular  road, 
which  ran  close  to  this  small  inland  sea  and  which 
was  a hopeless  quagmire.  The  land  about  us  was 
dreary  and  desolate  and  yet  had  its  own  charm. 
Off  to  the  left  were  immense  sand  hills  blown  up 
by  the  wind,  and  barren,  rocky  hills,  the  Wind 
Mountains.  We  came  at  last  to  the  little  station 
known  as  Sand  Springs,  which  is  simply  a lodging 
place  for  the  teamsters  and  their  horses  for  the 
night.  We  could  look  down  from  the  plateau  on 
which  the  little  house  and  the  barns  stood,  upon  the 
white  and  clay-colored,  desolate  spaces  of  the  salty 
valley  below.  The  landlady  welcomed  us  cordially 


126  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


and  gave  us  a plain  but  hearty  lunch.  She  was  a 
Californian  and  told  me  that  she  and  her  husband 
missed  the  green  hills  and  fields  of  their  own  State. 
She  said  that  they  had  wonderful  salt  for  curing 
and  packing  their  winter  meats  from  the  lake  down 
in  the  valley.  She  said  that  the  salt  could  be  raked 
up  in  great  heaps,  white  and  coarse  but  with  great 
strength  and  savor.  She  was  mourning  the  loss  of 
her  cows,  which  had  disappeared.  They  had  been 
gone  a month  and  she  feared  that  in  wandering 
away  on  the  mountain  ranges  they  had  been  driven 
off  by  “cattle  rustlers.” 

From  Sand  Springs  we  drove  on  through  a more 
hilly  country,  the  road  winding  along  through  an 
open  canyon.  We  passed  Frenchman’s  Flat,  where 
there  was  a little  restaurant  and  where  a French- 
man came  out  to  pass  the  time  of  day.  He  greeted 
us  very  pleasantly  and  would  doubtless  have  given 
us  a good  meal  if  we  had  not  already  had  one.  We 
then  crossed  another  great  level  and  passed  three 
ranches  known  as  West  Gate,  Little  Gate,  and  East 
Gate.  We  were  coming  into  a much  more  fertile 
country,  a high  valley  with  mountains  rising  on 
either  side.  Ahead  of  us,  marked  by  its  tall  cotton- 
wood trees,  was  Alpine  Ranch,  a part  of  the  big 


the  Lincoln  Highway.  2.  Ranch  House  at  East  Gate,  Nev.  3.  Road  Scene  near 
Rawlins,  Wyoming. 


OF 

uhivehsity 


OF  ltUH05 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  127 


Williams  estate  and  our  destination  for  the  night. 
It  was  very  cheering  to  drive  through  the  paddock, 
cross  a bubbling  little  stream,  and  come  up  along- 
side the  long,  low,  pleasant  ranch  house. 

We  had  had  as  traveling  companion  from  Fallon, 
across  the  Salt  Flats  and  through  the  hills,  a young 
commercial  man  from  San  Francisco  driving  his 
Ford  car  through  to  Utah.,  We  were  both  glad 
to  make  the  journey  across  the  desert  in  com- 
pany, hoping  to  be  of  mutual  assistance  in  case  of 
any  accident  to  our  cars.  Mr.  N.  now  proposed 
to  take  supper  at  Alpine  Ranch  and  to  travel  by 
night  in  order  to  gain  time.  We  warned  him  that 
he  might  get  into  trouble,  but  he  assured  us  that 
he  often  traveled  at  night  and  enjoyed  the  stillness 
and  the  freedom  to  speed  along.  We  found  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Dudley  of  the  ranch  hospitable  and  will- 
ing to  give  us  bed  and  board.  It  is  very  pleasant 
for  those  who  are  willing  to  forego  luxuries  to  stop 
at  farm  houses  and  ranch  houses,  to  take  the  fare 
and  sleep  upon  the  beds  given  them,  and  to  enjoy 
the  talk  of  the  people  and  the  contact  with  real 
ranch  life. 

We  had  a delightful  evening  with  the  Dudleys. 
We  ate  our  supper  at  a long  table  filled  with  ranch- 


128  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


men,  and  took  part  in  an  animated  conversation  on 
the  merits  of  the  present  Administration.  We  ate 
from  a red  tablecloth,  but  that  did  not  trouble  us. 
After  supper,  in  the  soft  evening  air,  we  had  a talk 
with  the  family  as  to  the  advantages  of  the  govern- 
ment ownership  of  railways.  A woman  from  a 
nearby  town  took  an  earnest  share  in  the  conversa- 
tion and  showed  herself  well  acquainted  with  the 
arguments  for  and  against  such  ownership.  The 
master  of  the  ranch  told  us  something  of  his  diffi- 
culty in  keeping  men  steadily  at  work  on  the  ranch. 
He  said  that  they  came  and  went  constantly  in 
spite  of  good  pay,  steady  work,  and  kindly  treat- 
ment. He  said  that  it  was  very  difficult  to  get  a 
man  to  stay  more  than  two  years.  He  would  bring 
his  roll  of  bedding,  as  is  Western  custom,  take  his 
place  in  the  bunk  house  and  at  the  table  and  in  the 
fields  for  a time,  but  he  could  not  be  persuaded  to 
stay  long.  The  wandering  habit  had  too  strong  a 
grip  upon  him. 

We  went  out  into  the  ample  paddock  to  see  the 
mules  and  horses  roving  comfortably  about.  Two 
of  the  wild  horses  of  the  plains  had  recently  been- 
captured  and  brought  in.  Both  were  going  through 
a course  of  discipline  which  the  ranchman  assured 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  129 


us  would  have  to  be  made  more  severe  later  on.  One 
was  a beautiful  young  mare  with  her  colt  following 
her  closely.  She  had  a heavy  yoke  bar  hanging  by 
a sort  of  collar  from  her  neck,  and  so  arranged  as 
to  clog  and  trip  her  if  she  attempted  to  run.  She 
was  peacefully  wandering  about,  but  snorted  with 
fear  as  we  came  near  her.  Her  master  assured  us 
that  she  could  easily  be  tamed,  and  that  she  was  not 
to  be  driven  or  saddled,  but  was  to  be  used  as  a bell 
mare.  That  is,  she  was  to  be  the  leader  of  the  herd 
let  out  on  the  plains.  The  ranchman  explained 
that  a company  of  horses  will  not  leave  a mare  with 
a young  colt,  consequently  she  is  used  to  keep  them 
from  straying  away  long  distances.  The  other 
horse  was  a fine  animal  but  much  less  docile  of 
spirit.  “I  feel  sorry  for  him,”  said  his  master;  “he 
has  got  a lot  to  go  through  with,  but  he  must  learn; 
there  is  no  other  way  for  him.”  The  animal  had 
both  his  fore  legs  and  hind  legs  “hand”  cuffed,  only 
a short  chain  being  used  on  the  shackles.  He  was 
in  this  way  so  hobbled  that  he  had  to  move  by  little 
leaps  forward,  first  his  fore  feet,  then  his  hind  feet. 
By  this  clumsy  hopping  he  managed  to  get  about. 
“He  must  first  learn  to  accept  this  and  then  we  will 
go  on  with  his  education,”  said  his  master.  He 


130  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


looked  very  wild  and  untamed  of  spirit,  poor  fel- 
low, and  made  frantic  efforts  to  rush  away  as  we 
came  near  him.  But  he  had  already  found  out  that 
his  cruel  chains  were  inexorable. 

We  walked  out  into  the  lovely  valley  and  toward 
the  purple  hills  that  rose  above  it.  One  can  never 
tire  of  the  evenings  and  the  mornings  of  the  great 
W estern  plains  and  table  lands.  N owhere  else  have 
I seen  such  wonderful  sunsets;  glorious  in  crim- 
sons, purples,  violets,  rose  lavenders,  ashes  of  roses, 
and  finally  soft  greys.  Nowhere  have  I seen  love- 
lier dawns,  the  air  so  crystal  clear,  the  morning 
light  so  full  of  rose  and  lavender  mysteries,  the 
whole  day  so  full  of  wide  and  happy  promise. 

Mr.  If.  had  insisted  on  going  on  after  supper  at 
the  ranch.  We  had  seen  him  disappear  down  the 
valley,  his  machine  finally  hidden  in  acres  of  grey- 
green  sage  brush. 

The  next  morning  we  drove  on,  passing  at  the  end 
of  the  valley  through  a short  but  rough  canyon, 
with  rocky  walls  to  the  left  and  right.  There  we 
saw  a board  sign  marking  “Water  100  feet  down.” 
Doubtless  this  was  a boon  to  travelers  in  the  old 
days.  Once  through  the  canyon,  we  came  out  into 
another  wide  valley,  lonely  and  spacious.  As  we 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  131 

drove  along,  we  saw  ahead  of  us  what  seemed  to 
be  a small  motor  car  by  the  roadside. 

‘T  believe  that’s  N’s  car!”  said  T.  As  we  came  up 
to  it  we  saw  that  the  two  left  wheels  were  hopelessly 
down  in  a deep  rut.  Mr.  N.  had  stuck  his  card  in 
the  windshield  of  the  car,  and  had  written  on  it, 
“Gone  for  some  boards;  wait  until  I come  back.” 
Soon  we  saw  him  coming  across  the  desert  with 
some  loose  boards  in  his  arms.  We  found  that  the 
poor  fellow  had  been  there  from  ten  o’clock  the 
night  before  until  ten  o’clock  in  the  morning,  the 
hour  of  our  passing.  He  had  been  howling  along 
comfortably  and  somewhat  sleepily  the  previous 
night,  when  suddenly  his  car  bumped  into  a muddy 
rut  from  which  he  found  it  impossible  to  extricate 
the  machine.  He  told  us  that  he  had  worked  fran- 
tically and  futilely  until  about  midnight.  Then  he 
put  out  his  lights,  wrapped  himself  up  as  best  he 
could,  and  slept  until  seven.  He  said  that  utter 
stillness  and  darkness  were  about  him.  “Not  even 
a jack  rabbit  passed.”  At  seven  he  again  began  to 
struggle  with  his  car.  He  had  the  sure  hope  that 
we  would  come  along  sooner  or  later.  He  had  cal- 
culated that  we  would  arrive  about  eleven.  When 
we  found  him  he  had  just  gone  to  a deserted,  fall- 


132  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


ing  ranch  house  to  find  a few  boards  to  be  used  as 
levers.  He  and  T.,  taking  our  machine,  now  drove 
to  the  ranch  house  and  brought  back  a goodly  sup- 
ply of  boards  and  some  heavier  pieces  of  timber 
which  they  had  torn  from  the  dropping  fences. 
The  boards  they  put  in  the  rut  in  front  of  the  wheels 
in  order  that  they  might  get  a grip  when  once  they 
started.  The  heavier  timbers  they  used  as  levers. 
And  so  by  dint  of  hard  work  and  by  the  help  of  two 
young  men  who  passed  in  their  motor  half  an  hour 
after  our  arrival,  the  front  wheel  was  pried  out  of 
the  sticky  mud,  and  the  car  was  once  more  gotten 
on  firm  ground.  It  was  past  one  o’clock  when  we 
climbed  up  the  bare  road  to  the  high  town  of  Austin 
and  went  to  the  International  Hotel  for  our  lunch- 
eon. What  with  lack  of  sleep  and  his  long  fast  Mr. 
N.  was  quite  worn  out.  A good  luncheon  prepared 
by  a Japanese  cook  and  served  by  a natty  and 
very  debonair  Japanese  waiter  put  us  all  in  better 
trim. 

Two  miles  beyond  Austin  we  were  9000  feet 
above  sea  level.  As  we  reached  this  height  we 
could,  looking  back,  see  Austin  below  us.  We  also 
had  a fine  view  of  the  desert  mountains.  Here  I 
began  to  understand  the  conformation  of  the  Ne- 


Cattle  on  Nevada  Desert.  2.  Deserted  Mining  Town  in  Nevada.  3.  Mining  town  Cemetery  in 
Nevada.  4.  In  the  Nevada  Desert. 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UMIVERSiTY  OF  ILLINOI 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  133 


vada  country.  We  were  passing  from  one  great 
valley  into  another,  hour  after  hour.  When  I 
looked  on  the  map  of  Nevada,  I found  a series  of 
short  mountain  ranges.  I could  see  what  we  were 
doing  in  our  travel.  We  were  deseending  into  a 
valley,  erossing  its  immense  width,  coming  up  on 
to  a more  or  less  lofty  pass,  usually  bare,  and  de- 
scending into  another  valley.  It  was  very  fasci- 
nating, this  rising  and  falling  with  always  the  new 
vista  of  a new  valley  just  opening  before  us. 

But  now  eame  tribulations.  Mr.  N.  had  evi- 
dently wrenched  his  maehine  in  his  struggle  to  free 
it  the  night  before.  He  began  to  have  trouble,  and 
traveled  more  and  more  haltingly  a little  way  be- 
hind us.  T.  felt  a personal  responsibility  for  him 
and  we  were  continually  stopping  to  wait  for  him. 
Finally  we  halted  at  the  head  of  a pass  before 
plunging  down  what  turned  out  to  be  a long  de- 
scent. We  had  just  elimbed  up  from  a wide  valley 
and  could  see  nothing  of  our  fellow  traveler  on  the 
slope  behind  us.  T.  left  the  car  and  went  back; 
and  while  I waited,  looking  off  at  the  mountains, 
two  women  reaehed  my  hilltop,  the  older  one  driv- 
ing the  Ford  car  in  which  they  were  traveling. 
They  looked  like  women  of  the  plains,  perfectly 


134  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 

able  to  take  care  of  themselves  and  to  meet  emer- 
gencies. They  had  food  supplies  with  them,  and 
two  dogs  as  fellow  passengers.  The  one,  a fox 
terrier,  was  tied  in  a box  in  the  tonneau  and  looked 
very  unhappy.  The  other,  a spaniel,  was  running 
back  and  forth  on  the  rear  seat  and  whining  with 
anxiety  to  get  out.  His  mistress  told  me  that  he 
was  one  of  the  greatest  hunters  in  Nevada,  and 
that  he  was  anxious  to  go  off  in  the  sage  brush  on 
a grand  chase.  Just  here  the  two  men  came  up 
the  hill  with  Mr.  N.’s  Ford  car,  weary  and  exhausted 
from  going  over  its  machinery  and  struggling  to 
get  it  moving.  The  women  warned  us  that  in  the 
valley  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  was  a very  bad  mud  hole 
which  we  must  inevitably  negotiate.  They  said  that 
a stream  from  the  mountains  had  in  a recent 
freshet  overflowed  the  plain  and  reduced  both 
the  road  and  the  adjoining  country  to  the  state  of 
a swamp.  They  assured  us  that  we  simply  must  go 
through  the  mud  hole  and  that  we  were  bound  to 
get  stuck  in  it.  They  cheered  us,  however,  by  tell- 
ing us  that  a nearby  settler  had  a sturdy  draught 
horse  and  that  he  would  in  all  probability  pull  us 
out  for  the  sum  of  $2.00  a motor  car.  We 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  135 


thanked  them  for  their  warning  and  drove  down 
the  long  hill  into  the  next  valley. 

I had  been  interested  while  waiting  for  Mr.  N.’s 
machine  to  come  up,  to  see  the  beautiful  cactus  blos- 
soms growing  close  to  the  ground  on  both  sides  of 
the  road.  They  were  of  a rich  yellow  and  a rich 
magenta  color,  single  petaled  and  really  beautiful. 
I saw  them  growing  all  along  through  the  desert. 
In  some  places  they  made  broad  patches  of  color. 

Coming  on  to  another  wide  valley  stretching  away 
for  eighty  miles  and  more,  we  saw  the  mud  hole 
before  us  and  carefully  examined  the  sides  of  the 
road  to  see  if  we  could  not  make  a detour.  The 
spongy,  muddy  soil  assured  us  that  it  was  hopeless, 
and  that  what  the  women  had  told  us  was  only  too 
true.  In  the  meantime  the  settler,  working  with 
his  wife  and  baby  near  at  hand  in  his  newly  cleared 
field,  kept  an  eye  on  us.  But  he  did  not  come  to 
our  rescue  until  we  called  him.  The  Ford,  being 
the  machine  of  lighter  weight,  started  first  through 
the  mud  hole.  Its  wheels  sank  immediately  and  no 
turning  on  of  power  could  push  it  forward.  We 
then  shouted  to  the  settler.  He  came  across  the 
field  with  his  big  horse,  and  as  he  drew  near  we 


136  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


saw  that  he  was  a tall,  good  looking  man  with  an 
open  and  kindly  face.  I was  secretly  glad  that  the 
poor  fellow  who  had  so  recently  cast  his  lot  in  this 
lonely  and  immense  valley  had  a chance  to  earn 
some  ready  money.  After  a little  pleasant  dicker- 
ing he  agreed  to  pull  the  machines  out  for  $1.00 
apiece.  The  splendid  big  horse  was  harnessed  to 
the  machine  and  at  the  word  he  threw  his  weight 
against  his  traces  and  philosophically  pulled  away, 
while  Mr.  N.  at  the  same  instant  turned  on  his 
power.  The  machine  easily  came  out  of  the  mud 
and  was  soon  on  dry  ground.  T.  drove  our  ma- 
chine forward,  was  instantly  imbedded  in  the  mud 
and  was  pulled  out  in  the  same  way.  It  was  inter- 
esting to  see  how  the  big  horse  threw  his  weight 
into  the  pulling  at  just  the  proper  moment  and  re- 
laxed as  he  felt  the  machine  settle  on  the  firm 
ground.  His  master  told  us  that  the  animal  had 
come  with  their  little  caravan  from  Colorado,  seven 
hundred  and  twenty  miles,  without  turning  a hair, 
while  the  other  horse  sickened  and  died. 

This  man  had  only  his  few  supplies  and  the  little 
tent  in  which  they  were  living,  together  with  a bit 
of  the  rich  land  already  cleared  and  planted  to  a 
crop.  He  said  that  he  had  never  seen  richer  land 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  137 


than  this  from  which  the  sage  brush  had  been  pulled 
up  and  burned  off.  A thin  muddy  stream  trickled 
across  the  road  from  the  hills  and  was  used  both 
for  irrigation  and  for  drinking  purposes.  “But 
when  you  come  back  next  year,  I shall  have  a well 
down,”  said  the  brave  homesteader.  “And,  by 
George,  if  the  County  Commissioners  won’t  put  in 
a bridge  across  this  mud  hole.  I’ll  put  one  across 
myself ! Just  come  back  and  see  a year  from  now!” 
We  waved  him  goodbye  and  went  on  our  way  across 
the  lone  valley  and  up  another  divide.  The  valley 
was  Monitor  Valley,  he  told  us.  I can  see  him 
standing  there  in  the  lovely  light  of  the  late  after- 
noon sun,  he  and  his  wife  and  their  baby  boy  waving 
us  farewell.  I should  like  to  pass  that  way  again 
and  to  see  whether  he  has  replaced  his  tent  by  a 
little  house  and  whether  his  virgin  fields  are  green 
with  a crop. 

Some  day,  I suppose,  those  wide,  far-stretching 
acres  will  be  dotted  with  houses  and  barns  and 
stacks  of  alfalfa.  It  is  difficult  to  convey  the  im- 
pression that  these  vast  valleys  with  the  hills  in  the 
distance,  and  with  the  rich  coloring  of  the  sunrise  * 
and  the  sunset,  make  upon  one.  They  are  lonely 
and  yet  they  are  not  lonely.  They  are  full  of  life. 


138  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


We  saw  hundreds  of  prairie  dogs.  Day  after  day 
they  scuttled  across  our  pathway,  often  narrowly 
escaping.  Sometimes  they  sat  on  their  hind  legs  by 
their  burrows,  waiting  as  long  as  they  dared  until 
the  noise  of  the  machine  frightened  them  into  their 
holes.  Sometimes  a whole  village  of  them  would 
watch  us  until  we  drew  near,  and  then  frantically 
disappear.  Sometimes  we  saw  a coyote,  usually  in 
the  early  morning  or  the  late  afternoon.  We  once 
saw  one  whose  curiosity  was  so  great  that  he  halted 
perhaps  fifty  yards  away,  and  looked  at  us  from 
this  safe  distance  as  we  passed.  Once  we  saw  a 
rabbit  breathing  his  last  near  the  roadside,  his  soft 
eyes  filled  with  a look  of  far  away  consciousness 
and  pain.  And  once  we  saw  a beautiful  antelope 
leaping  and  bounding  over  the  sage  brush  so  lightly 
that  he  looked  in  the  distance  like  a phantom  ani- 
mal made  of  thistle  down. 

I can  completely  understand  how  the  desert  casts 
its  spell  over  cattlemen  and  sheepmen  so  that  they 
love  it  and  its  freedom  and  are  continually  drawn 
back  to  it.  The  mystery  and  glory  of  the  desert 
plains  have  their  devotees  just  as  really  as  the  mys- 
tery and  glory  of  the  great  city  have  their  worship- 
pers who  never  wish  to  be  far  from  its  lights. 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  139 


The  many  stops  of  the  day  had  made  us  very  late 
and  it  was  in  darkness  that  we  came  through  the 
canyon  which  makes  a long  gateway  to  the  town  of 
Eureka.  There  was  something  fearsome  about 
those  dark  rocks,  whose  mysteries  we  had  never 
seen  by  daylight,  rising  on  each  side  of  us,  and  about 
the  deep  chasm  that  lay  in  shadow  down  at  the  left 
of  the  road.  We  were  glad  indeed  when  the  lights 
of  our  lamps  flashed  on  the  stakes  with  their  fa- 
miliar red,  white,  and  blue  markings,  the  friendly 
signs  of  our  beloved  Lincoln  Highway.  It  was 
nearly  nine  o’clock  when  we  came  into  Eureka,  and 
drew  up  at  the  dim  lights  of  Brown’s  Hotel. 
Brown’s  Hotel  seemed  to  be  mostly  a bar  room  and 
lounging  place;  at  least  that  was  the  impression 
made  upon  me  by  the  glimpse  I caught  of  the 
lighted  room  downstairs  as  I stood  on  the  wooden 
porch.  But  we  were  shown  upstairs  to  a very  com- 
fortable, old  fashioned,  high  ceilinged  room  with 
heavy  walnut  furniture  of  the  style  of  forty  years 
ago.  An  aged  ingrain  carpet  was  on  the  floor,  and 
a wreath  of  wax  flowers  such  as  our  grandmothers 
rejoiced  in,  hung,  set  in  a deep  frame,  on  the  wall. 
I thought  to  myself  that  these  were  relics  of  de- 
parted glories  and  of  a day  when  there  was  money 


140  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


to  furnish  the  old  hostel  in  the  taste  then  in  vogue. 
A dim  oil  lamp  assisted  our  toilet  and  we  went 
downstairs  and  out  into  the  town  to  a restaurant 
kept  by  an  Italian  and  his  wife.  It  was  the  only 
place  where  we  could  get  food  at  that  time  of  night. 
Eureka  is  a most  forlorn  little  town,  perched  high 
and  dry,  just  as  if  the  waves  of  traffic  and  of  com- 
mercial life  had  ebbed  away  and  left  it  far  up  on 
the  beach  forever.  They  told  us  that  it  was  once  a 
big  and  prosperous  town.  But  like  Mariposa  in 
California,  the  mining  interests  have  been  trans- 
ferred to  other  localities  and  the  town  is  left  lonely. 
As  we  walked  along  its  silent  and  dimly  lighted 
main  street,  we  saw  the  quaint  wooden  porches  in 
front  of  the  shops  and  houses,  some  high,  some  low, 
making  an  uneven  sidewalk.  Practically  all  of  the 
shops  were  closed,  only  the  saloons  being  open. 

The  Italian  had  named  his  restaurant  The  Ve- 
nezia in  honor  of  his  native  city.  It  was  a bright, 
comfortable  little  room,  the  kitchen  at  the  back  of 
it  lightly  screened  from  the  dining  room.  It  ad- 
joined his  hotel,  quite  a large  building,  where  he 
proudly  told  us  he  had  twenty-two  beds.  His  wife, 
a stout,  bright-eyed  woman,  cheerfully  took  our  or- 
der. “I  am  poor,”  she  said  smilingly,  “so  I cook 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  141 


when  other  people  ask  me.  If  I rich  I cook  when 
I feel  like  it.”  A savory  smell  arose  from  her  fry- 
ing pan,  and  we  were  soon  eating  excellent  and  gen- 
erous slices  of  ham,  drinking  very  respectable  tea, 
and  enjoying  some  good  bread  and  butter.  It  was 
a most  refreshing  supper  after  a long  and  somewhat 
trying  day.  We  expressed  our  appreciation  to  our 
Italian  friends  and  paid  the  very  modest  reckoning. 


142  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


CHAPTER  VIII 

The  next  morning  we  had  breakfast  at  Brownes 
Hotel.  The  landlord  called  my  attention  to  a robin 
who  was  building  her  nest  in  a tree  in  front  of  the 
hotel;  the  only  tree  that  I recall  seeing  on  the  bare, 
bald,  yellow  village  street. 

In  our  long  ride  of  the  day  before,  we  had  come 
through  Edwards  Creek  Valley,  the  Smith  Creek 
Valley,  the  Reese  River  Valley,  the  Antelope  Val- 
ley, the  Monitor  Valley,  and  other  great  valleys  of 
whose  names  I was  not  sure.  We  had  seen  the  Clan 
Alpine  Mountains  from  Alpine  ranch,  the  Toyabee 
National  Range,  and  other  ranges  whose  names 
were  too  many  and  too  local  for  me  to  he  sure  of 
them.  And  I had  read  of  275,000  acres  that  had 
been  placed  on  the  market  in  Elko  County  alone. 
I had  read  in  the  Elko  paper  that  “For  years,  there 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  143 


was  a popular  prejudice  in  the  East  that  Nevada 
was  one  grand  glorious  desert,  the  land  worthless, 
and  that  nothing  could  be  grown  out  here.  But  in 
later  years  the  public  back  East  has  been  shown 
that  such  is  not  the  case,  but  on  the  contrary,  we 
have  the  richest  land  in  Elko  County  to  be  found 
anywhere  in  the  United  States,  and  that  the  crops 
here  are  the  best  and  almost  anything  can  be  grown 
in  Elko  County.” 

Having  seen  the  rich  land  of  our  brave  home- 
steader in  Monitor  Valley,  I was  ready  to  believe 
this  outburst  of  local  pride. 

It  was  the  23rd  of  June  when  the  landlord  of 
Brown’s  Hotel  waved  his  farewell  to  us  and  we 
drove  on.  All  day  we  were  among  the  hills,  not 
seeing  them  on  far  distant  horizons,  but  continually 
climbing  and  descending  among  them.  Twenty- 
three  miles  from  Eureka  we  saw  a wooded  moun- 
tain, quite  different  from  the  bald  grey  hills  we 
had  seen  the  day  before.  Short,  scrubby  green 
trees,  somewhat  like  our  New  Jersey  junipers, 
grew  on  the  mountain  sides  and  gave  this  appear- 
ance of  foilage  and  greenness.  We  saw  many  of 
them  in  our  day’s  ride.  When  we  reached  Six  Mile 
House,  having  passed  Fourteen  Mile  House,  we 


144.  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


asked  the  ranchman’s  wife  to  give  us  some  lunch- 
eon. She  said  that  she  could  not  accommodate  us, 
having  but  few  supplies  on  hand.  She  advised  us 
to  go  on  to  Hamilton  and  said  that  she  would  tele- 
phone to  the  Hamilton  House  that  we  were  com- 
ing. In  accordance  with  her  directions  we  took  a 
turn  to  the  right  shortly  after  leaving  Six  Mile 
House  and  climbed  up  through  a narrow,  rocky 
canyon  road.  Finally,  within  a mile  or  so  of  Ham- 
ilton, when  we  had  one  more  hill  to  climb,  we  came 
upon  a morass  made  by  the  bursting  of  a water 
pipe.  We  could  not  go  around  it  and  we  dared  not 
attempt  to  go  through  it,  no  friendly  settler  with  a 
powerful  horse  being  in  sight.  So  we  turned  care- 
fully about,  went  down  the  rocky  road  to  the  fork 
where  we  had  turned  off,  and  took  the  other  branch 
of  the  fork.  Then  we  climbed  up  another  moun- 
tain road  until  we  reached  the  summit  of  the  pass, 
8115  feet.  From  here  we  had  a grand  view  of  the 
mountains  and  we  also  met  the  high  ridge  road 
from  Hamilton.  We  pressed  on  down  the  hill  past 
a deserted  ranch  house  to  Moorman’s  Ranch,  a hos- 
pitable looking  house  by  the  roadside.  At  Moor- 
man’s Ranch  we  found  an  unforgettable  hospital- 
ity. Our  host  and  hostess  were  Missourians,  and 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  145 


to  our  question  as  to  whether  they  could  give  us 
any  luncheon  at  2 o’clock,  they  gave  us  a most  sat- 
isfactory answer.  Mrs.  Moorman  soon  had  a laden 
table  ready  for  us,  and  we  sat  down  to  fried  bacon 
and  eggs,  potatoes,  lettuce,  radishes,  preserved  cher- 
ries, stewed  prunes,  milk,  tea,  and  pie.  How  re- 
freshing it  all  was ! And  how  pleasant  was  the  soft 
Southern  accent  of  our  hostess  which  she  had  not 
lost  in  the  years  on  the  plains. 

Moorman’s  Ranch  is  a large  ranch  with  grazing 
rights  in  the  hills  near  by.  The  adjoining  ranch 
with  its  recently  deserted  ranch  house  is  now  a part 
of  Moorman’s  Ranch,  and  there  is  a large  acreage 
for  the  cattle.  We  learned  that  the  wretched  coy- 
otes come  down  from  the  hills  and  steal  the  young 
calves  at  every  opportunity.  Only  a few  days  be- 
fore, a cow  had  gone  to  drink  leaving  her  new  born 
calf  for  a few  minutes.  When  she  came  back,  the 
little  animal  had  been  struck  down  by  a waiting 
coyote.  We  learned  too  that  the  mountain  lions 
come  down  from  the  hills  and  sometimes  attack 
the  young  colts  and  kill  them. 

It  was  with  sincere  regret  that  we  bade  goodbye 
to  Captain  and  Mrs.  Moorman.  May  their  ranch 
flourish  from  year  to  year! 


146  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


Shortly  after  leaving  the  ranch  and  in  crossing 
another  wide  valley,  we  saw  a herd  of  several  hun- 
dred wild  horses  feeding  on  the  great  plain — a beau- 
tiful sight.  They  were  grazing  in  a rich  part  of  the 
plain  where  the  grass  looked  thick  and  lush. 

I must  own  to  having  an  impression  that  the 
trail  across  Nevada  could  be  marked  by  whiskey 
bottles  if  by  no  other  signs.  All  along  our  road 
across  the  great  State  we  saw  the  bottles  where  they 
had  been  thrown  in  the  sand  and  dust  by  passers-by. 

Many  times  I thought  of  the  “Forty-niners,”  as 
we  saw  the  sign,  “Overland  Trail.”  In  coming 
along  the  Lincoln  Highway,  we  are  simply  travers- 
ing the  old  overland  road  along  which  the  prairie 
schooners  of  the  pioneers  passed.  How  much  heart- 
ache, heart-break,  and  hope  deferred  this  old  trail 
has  seen!  I think  of  it  as  we  bowl  along  so  com- 
fortably over  the  somewhat  rough  but  yet  very  pass- 
able road.  I can  appreciate  now  the  touching 
story  in  a San  Francisco  paper  of  an  old  lady  who 
came  to  the  rear  platform  of  a fine  overland  train 
after  passing  a certain  village  station,  and  threw 
out  some  flowers  upon  the  plain.  Near  here,  she 
told  her  friends,  her  little  baby  had  been  buried  in 
the  desert  forty  years  before,  as  she  and  her  hus- 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  147 


band  toiled  with  their  little  caravan  along  the  trail. 
The  years  had  passed  and  they  were  prosperous  and 
old  in  California.  And  now  as  she  went  East  on 
the  swift  and  beautiful  train  she  threw  out  her 
tribute  to  the  little  grave  somewhere  in  the  great 
desert. 

As  we  drew  near  Ely,  the  famous  copper  city,  we 
passed  the  huge  mountain  of  earth  which  forms  the 
wealth  of  the  Ely  mines.  The  Lincoln  Highway 
signs  take  one  to  the  right  on  a short  detour  in  order 
that  one  may  see  this  mountain  of  ore,  which  is  be- 
ing cut  away  by  immense  steam  shovels,  tier  above 
tier.  Returning  to  the  main  road,  we  drove  on 
through  a canyon  and  so  came  into  the  bright  little 
town  of  Ely  which  has  many  evidences  of  prosper- 
ity. We  found  the  Northern  Hotel,  European  in 
plan,  most  comfortable.  Next  door  was  an  excel- 
lent cafe  where  we  had  a supper  of  which  a New 
York  restaurant  need  not  have  been  ashamed. 
Leaving  Ely  on  the  morning  of  June  24th,  we  drove 
through  Step  toe  Valley  for  some  forty  miles. 
Where  we  turned  off  from  the  valley  it  still 
stretched  on  for  another  forty  miles.  It  looked  as 
if  it  might  go  on  to  the  world’s  end.  Just  out  of 
Ely  we  passed  through  McGill  and  visited  the  im- 


148  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


mense  smelting  works.  There  we  saw  the  “concen- 
trators,” interesting  machines  to  shake  down  the 
heavy  grains  of  copper  from  the  lighter  grains  of 
sand  and  earth.  These  big,  slanting  boards  keep 
up  a continual  shake,  shake,  shake  while  a thin 
stream  of  water  pours  over  them.  They  are  a little 
less  slanting  than  the  board  of  a woman’s  washtub 
would  be,  and  yet  they  lie  somewhat  hke  a wash- 
board. The  shaking  of  the  board  and  the  action 
of  the  water  combine  to  roll  down  the  heavy  grains 
of  copper.  It  seems  a simple  process,  and  yet  the 
regulation  of  the  board’s  motion  and  the  angle 
of  its  slant  are  calculated  to  a nicety.  There  were 
hundreds  of  these  “concentrators”  at  work  sepa- 
rating the  copper  from  its  native  earth.  We  saw 
also  the  great  smelting  furnaces  and  realized  how 
it  must  have  been  possible  for  the  men  who  pre- 
pared the  furnace  for  the  burning  of  Shadrach,  Me- 
shach,  and  Abednego  to  be  burned  to  death  them- 
selves. What  a fearful  heat  rolled  out  as  one 
of  the  furnace  doors  was  opened  and  a molten 
stream  of  white-hot  slag  was  raked  into  the  gutter 
below  I And  how  the  copper  glowed  as  we  saw  it  in 
its  enormous  melting  caldron!  For  the  first  time 
I saw  a traveling  crane  at  work.  A characteristic 


Ely,  Nevada.  2.  Homesteader’s  Ranch  near  Lahontan  Dam.  3.  Copper  Mine  at  Ely.  4.  Ely,  Nev. 


Of 

Of 


ILUH0\S 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  149 


sign  was  near  it  in  both  English  and  Greek.  It 
read,  “Keep  away  from  crane.  Keep  clear  and 
stand  from  under.” 

As  we  left  Steptoe  Valley  and  came  down  a long 
slope  into  Spring  Valley,  we  crossed  Shellbourne 
Pass  under  the  shadow  of  the  Shellbourne  range. 
We  passed  some  young  people  from  Detroit,  the 
gentleman  driving  his  car.  We  also  passed  some 
men  with  their  laden  burros  taking  supplies  to  the 
sheepmen  in  the  mountain  ranges.  These  sheepmen 
live  their  lives  apart  from  the  world  for  months  at  a 
time,  seeing  only  the  man  who  brings  their  supplies 
at  intervals. 

We  had  luncheon  at  Anderson’s  ranch,  where  they 
treated  us  very  hospitably.  I judged  that  this  was 
a Mormon’s  household,  as  Mormon  marriage  cer- 
tificates hung  upon  the  wall  and  as  the  Deseret 
Weekly  was  evidently  its  newspaper  connection 
with  the  outside  world.  Here  our  friend  Mr.  N. 
took  on  board  a young  man  from  the  ranch  who 
wished  to  get  back  to  Salt  Lake  City.  This  young 
fellow  was  delighted  to  have  such  a ride  and  Mr.  N, 
was  glad  to  have  a traveling  companion.  Later  in 
the  day  we  passed  Tippett’s  ranch  and  learned  that 
its  owner  travels  thirty-six  miles  for  his  mail  and 


150  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


supplies.  Toward  evening  we  crossed  the  Utah 
border  and  immediately  came  upon  bad  roads.  We 
had  a rough  stretch  until  we  reached  our  station  for 
the  night,  Ibapah.  Ibapah  consists  of  a very 
pleasant  ranch  house  and  of  a general  supply  gro- 
cery, both  house  and  grocery  owned  by  Mr.  Sheri- 
dan. We  had  a comfortable  night  at  the  ranch 
house  and  purchased  some  beautiful  baskets  made 
by  the  Indians  and  brought  by  them  to  Mr.  Sheri- 
dan for  sale.  The  air  was  so  fine  and  the  evening 
so  delightful  that  we  reluctantly  retired.  Never 
can  I forget  the  crystal  silences  of  those  still  nights 
on  the  high  plains  of  the  West.  The  next  day,  June 
25th,  we  had  a drive  of  one  hundred  and  twenty 
miles  across  rough  and  lonely  country.  From  Iba- 
pah we  went  on  through  the  valley  in  which  the 
ranch  lay,  coming  to  an  extremely  rough  canyon 
road,  practically  nothing  but  the  bed  of  a stream. 
Then  came  Kearney’s  Ranch,  where  they  warned 
us  of  some  mud  holes  in  the  road  ahead.  We  drove 
around  a rocky  point,  picking  our  way  carefully, 
some  hot  springs  and  a sulphur  lake  smoking  off  in 
the  distance  on  our  left.  The  mountains  rose  to  the 
right  above  our  route,  bare  and  bald.  We  came  to 
Fish  Springs  Ranch  in  the  midst  of  this  lonely 


American  Baptist  Home  Mission  Touring  Wagon.  2.  Fish  Springs  Ranch,  Utah. 


LiBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNSVERSii  Y OF  ILLINOl 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  151 


country  and  stopped  for  luncheon.  Our  host  was 
a tall  and  powerfully  built  elderly  ranchman  in  a 
blue  jumper.  A younger  man  lived  with  him  and 
the  two  did  their  cooking  and  eating  in  a little  log 
and  stone  house,  near  the  main  ranch  house.  He 
explained  to  us  that  he  kept  the  little  house  because 
it  was  once  a station  on  the  Wells  Fargo  stage 
route.  “Horace  Greeley  ate  at  this  table  when  he 
came  on  his  historic  Western  trip,  and  so  I keep 
the  place  standing,”  he  said.  His  young  helper 
cooked  our  meal  in  the  back  room  and  our  host 
served  it  in  the  front  one.  We  had  fried  eggs,  po- 
tatoes, pickles,  cheese,  bread,  butter,  and  tea,  and  an 
appetizing  cup  cake  cut  in  square  pieces.  I no- 
ticed a White  House  Cook  Book  lying  on  a little 
table  near  by.  Our  host  was  very  hospitable. 
“Have  some  of  them  sweet  pickles,  folks.”  “Do  we 
raise  cattle  here?  You  bet  we  do.  I have  had  this 
ranch  over  thirty  years.”  As  we  left  him  he  warned 
us  that  we  were  now  entering  the  “Great  American 
Desert”  and  that  we  would  have  sixty  miles  of  dry 
plain  with  very  little  undergrowth  and  with  no  wa- 
ter. He  told  us  that  if  we  got  into  trouble  we 
should  start  a fire  and  “make  a smoke.”  “I’ll  see 
you  with  my  glasses”  he  said,  “and  drive  to  your 


152  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


rescue  with  gasoline  and  water.”  I had  seen  near 
the  ranch  house  a clear,  bubbling  spring  which 
doubtless  gave  its  name  to  the  ranch. 

We  assured  him  that  we  were  well  stocked  with 
gasoline  and  that  we  had  on  our  running  board  a 
standard  oil  can  filled  with  water.  When  we  were 
twenty  miles  away  I could  still  see  the  ranch  house, 
a tiny  speck  upon  the  horizon.  At  last  we  came  to 
a well  by  the  roadside  which  was  marked  “County 
well.”  The  road,  though  somewhat  bumpy,  was  in 
many  places  smooth  and  excellent,  a sort  of  clay 
highway.  Midway  across  the  desert  we  met  another 
car  and  exchanged  greetings. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  as  we  were  climbing  up  a 
slight  pass,  a dust  storm  overtook  us.  The  sky  was 
overcast,  the  mountains'  and  plain  were  blotted  out, 
and  we  could  only  drive  along  slowly  and  endure 
the  choking  clouds  of  dust  until  the  storm  had  swept 
by.  It  was  blessed  to  come  again  into  clear  sun- 
shine and  to  see  the  outlines  of  the  mountains  ap- 
pearing once  more.  Once  over  the  pass,  we  came 
into  a great  ranch  valley  and  saw  that  we  had  left 
the  bare  plains  behind  us.  We  reached  the  Kanaka 
Ranch  in  time  for  supper  and  were  assured  that  we 
could  have  lodging  for  the  night.  The  Kanaka 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  153 


Ranch  of  eight  thousand  acres  is  the  property  of 
the  Mormon  church.  It  is  under  the  charge  of  a 
young  manager  who  looks  after  the  Hawaiians 
(Kanaka  meaning  a South  Sea  Islander)  who  have 
been  converted  to  the  Mormon  faith,  and  who  have 
been  brought  to  the  ranch  to  work  upon  its  acres 
and  to  make  their  homes  there  under  the  friendly 
shadow  of  the  church’s  authority.  The  manager 
was  a dignified  young  man  with  a pleasant  wife  and 
four  dear  little  children.  They  gave  us  a most  ap- 
petizing supper  and  breakfast.  “The  difference 
between  your  belief  and  ours,”  said  our  host  to  T., 
“is  that  you  believe  in  a completed  revelation.  We 
believe  in  a continuous  revelation.” 

I heard  him  talking  very  fluently  in  the  Hawaiian 
tongue  to  some  of  his  disciples  who  had  come  in  for 
farm  directions. 

The  next  morning  was  wonderfully  fresh  and 
clear,  a rain  having  fallen  during  the  night.  We 
had  just  a taste  of  what  a rainy  trip  would  be 
across  country,  as  we  slipped  about  on  the  greasy 
mud  of  the  highway.  One  reason  why  our  long 
journey  was  so  ideal  was  because  of  the  dry  season. 
Day  after  day  we  came  on  over  perfectly  dry 
roads  and  under  perfectly  clear  skies.  Another  ad- 


154  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


vantage  of  our  journey  was  that  we  were  traveling 
East.  Every  afternoon  the  sun  was  behind  us,  to 
our  great  comfort;  and  the  beautiful  light  fell  on 
the  plains  and  mountains  ahead  of  us.  No  wonder 
that  we  loved  to  travel  late  in  the  afternoon  and 
that  we  had  to  make  a stern  rule  for  ourselves  to 
follow,  to  the  effect  that  no  matter  how  tempted 
we  were,  we  would  not  travel  after  sunset. 

By  dint  of  creeping  slowly  along  we  passed  the 
slippery  stretches  of  road  and  enjoyed  the  fine  open 
country  with  the  mountains  to  the  right  and  the 
farms  to  the  left.  After  passing  Grantsville  we 
came  by  some  large  concentrators  and  smelters 
in  the  shadow  of  the  mountain.  Turning  left  we 
came  around  the  shoulder  of  the  mountain,  and 
there  to  our  left  was  Great  Salt  Lake,  sparkling  and 
blue-green  in  the  morning  light,  a mountainous  isl- 
and in  the  middle  of  it.  We  could  see  the  Casino  at 
the  end  of  the  long  pier  at  Saltair,  a favorite  resort 
for  Salt  Lake  City  people.  We  passed  the  miners’ 
homes  at  Magna  and  Garfield,  someone  having 
written  facetiously  the  sign  “Mosquito  Park”  over 
the  entrance  to  a swampy  district  with  its  little  set- 
tlement of  cottages.  Now  we  came  into  a beautiful 
upland  country  with  fine  farms  and  every  appear- 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  155 


ance  of  prosperity.  Cottonwoods  and  tall  poplars 
were  seen  everywhere  on  the  landscape.  They  are 
very  characteristic  of  this  part  of  the  country. 
They  grow  rapidly  and  the  cottonwood  sends  its 
roots  long  distances  in  search  of  water.  As  we  ap- 
proached Salt  Lake  City,  it  appeared  to  us  to  be  a 
green,  wooded  city  extending  down  a long  slope  on 
the  mountain  side.  The  new  State  House  towered 
high  at  the  upper  end  of  the  slope  against  the  back- 
ground of  lofty  mountains,  still  snowy,  which  guard 
the  city. 

I was  charmed  with  Salt  Lake  City.  It  has  a 
beautiful  situation,  high  and  picturesque.  Its 
streets  are  very  wide  and  this  gives  a certain  state- 
liness and  air  of  hospitality  to  the  town.  It  is  laid 
out  on  a generous  scale.  Many  of  the  residence 
streets  have  green  stretches  of  flower-adorned  park 
running  through  the  center.  The  open  lawns  of 
the  homelike  homes,  the  broad  streets,  the  resi- 
dences of  stone  and  brick,  the  masses  of  pink 
rambler  roses  climbing  over  them,  all  make  a charm- 
ing impression  upon  one.  Then  there  are  delight- 
ful excursions  into  the  canyons  of  the  great  moun- 
tains near  the  city.  We  took  such  an  excursion  by 
electric  car  line,  fourteen  miles  up  into  Immigra- 


166  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


tion  Canyon.  This  is  the  old  trail  along  which  the 
Mormons  came  in  1847.  At  the  end  of  the  line  is  a 
delightful  hotel,  the  Pinecrest  Inn.  Had  there 
been  time  we  could  have  taken  many  more  canyon 
trips. 

“The  Utah”  is  a beautiful  hotel  with  every  mod- 
em equipment.  A great  bee  hive,  the  Mormon  em- 
blem, glows  with  light  at  night  on  top  of  the  build- 
ing. Of  comse  we  saw  the  Mormon  tabernacle  and 
walked  about  its  splendid  grounds.  I was  particu- 
larly interested  in  the  “sea  gull  monument,”  de- 
signed by  Brigham  Young’s  grandson,  and  erected 
in  memory  of  the  sea  gulls  that  saved  the  crops  the 
first  year  of  Mormon  settlement  by  coming  in  flocks 
and  eating  th?  locusts  that  threatened  to  destroy 
everything  green.  We  enjoyed  the  fine  view  from 
the  State  University  buildings  on  the  “bench”  high 
above  the  town. 

In  Salt  Lake  City  I purchased  some  “canyon 
shoes”  of  a famous  manufacture,  and  later  I found 
them  admirable  for  heavy  walking  trips. 

We  left  Salt  Lake  City  by  driving  through  Par- 
ley’s Canyon,  a deep  gash  in  the  mountains  parallel 
to  Immigration  Canyon.  It  is  a favorite  local 
drive  to  go  out  through  Parley’s  Canyon  and  re- 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  157 

turn  to  Salt  Lake  City  through  Immigration  Can- 
yon. The  roadway  is  very  narrow,  as  it  shares  the 
canyon  floor  with  a railroad  track  and  with  a rush- 
ing stream,  so  one  must  drive  carefully  and  keep  a 
sharp  lookout  for  trains.  We  met  an  itinerant  Bap- 
tist missionary  driving  in  his  big  caravan  wagon 
into  the  country  for  a preaching  trip.  After  leav- 
ing Parley’s  Canyon  we  came  into  open  rolling 
country,  and  passed  the  substantial  stone  buildings 
of  Stevens  Ranch  and  Kimball  Ranch.  Then  came 
Silver  Creek  Canyon,  more  open  than  Parley’s 
Canyon  and  with  a fair  road.  We  had  luncheon  at 
the  Coalville  Hotel.  I was  attracted  to  the  little 
town  of  Coalville  because  there  were  so  many  yards 
where  old  fashioned  yellow  rosebushes  were  laden 
with  bloom.  We  drove  on  through  Echo  Canyon, 
whose  red  sandstone  rocks,  chiseled  in  many  forms 
by  wind  and  weather,  have  very  fine  coloring. 
At  Castle  Rock  the  whole  formation  is  like  that 
of  a massive  fortification.  Six  miles  before  we 
reached  the  town  of  Evanston,  we  crossed  the  State 
line  and  were  in  Wyoming.  It  is  a pity  that  these 
State  boundaries  are  indicated  in  many  places  by 
such  shabby,  indifferent  wooden  signs,  looking  as 
if  they  had  been  put  up  over  night.  Doubtless  as 


158  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


the  Lincoln  Highway  is  improved  there  will  be  dig- 
nified boundary  stones  erected  to  mark  the  State 
lines. 

Evanston  is  a pleasant  little  town  6300  feet  high. 
Near  Evanston  is  the  Chapman  Ranch,  where  many 
thousands  of  sheep  are  handled.  We  stopped  in 
Evanston  only  a few  minutes  and  then  drove  on 
through  delightful  desert  country,  open  and  roll- 
ing, grey-green  and  blue  in  its  coloring.  The 
Wyoming  desert  has  a sharper  and  more  vivid 
coloring  than  that  of  Nevada.  The  tableland  is 
more  rolling  and  the  mountains  are  farther  away. 
It  is  a wonderful  sheep  country,  but  the  flocks  are 
at  present  in  the  mountain  ranges.  Later,  as  the 
autumn  comes  on  and  cold  falls  upon  their  moun- 
tain pastures,  the  herders  will  bring  them  down  to 
these  plains  over  which  we  are  passing. 

Mr.  Dudley  of  Alpine  Ranch  told  us  that  should 
we  visit  the  ranch  in  autumn  we  would  find  the 
whole  valley  covered  with  sheep.  We  heard  much 
“sheep  talk”  in  Nevada  and  Wyoming.  We 
learned  about  the  “shad  scale”  which  the  sheep  eat, 
and  about  certain  kinds  of  sage  brush  that  are  very 
nutritious.  Mr.  Dudley  had  pointed  out  to  us  a 
low-growing  white  plant,  somewhat  like  the  “dusty 


1.  Prairie  Schooners,  Westward  Bound.  2.  Lincoln  Highway  Sign  in 
the  Desert.  3.  Sheep  in  the  Wyoming  Desert. 


LiBPiAHY 
Of  I HE 

UlfOVERblU  OF  ILLINOIS 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  159 

miller”  of  our  childhood,  that  is  extremely  nutri- 
tious for  cattle. 

Here  and  there  on  the  desert  we  see  fine  bunches 
of  beef  cattle,  feeding  in  little  oases;  green,  damp 
stretches  of  country  in  the  midst  of  an  ocean  of  sage 
brush. 

Now  and  then  we  pass  a cattleman  or  a sheep- 
man riding  with  that  easy  give  of  the  body  which 
is  so  graceful  and  so  characteristic  of  Western 
horsemen.  I know  nothing  like  it,  save  the  easy 
posture  of  those  immortal  youths  who  ride  forever 
in  the  procession  of  the  Elgin  marbles  in  the  Brit- 
ish Museum.  They  have  the  same  graceful  easing 
of  the  body  to  the  motion  of  the  horse,  and  give 
the  same  impression  of  the  harmony  of  horse  and 
rider.  Often  we  pass  white,  closely  plastered  log 
houses,  just  such  as  we  saw  in  Nevada.  We 
see  white  canopied  wagons  in  the  barnyards  of  al- 
most every  ranch  house,  just  as  in  eastern  Nevada. 
These  people  think  nothing  of  traveling  long  dis- 
tances in  their  prairie  schooners  with  their  supplies 
for  roadside  camping  at  night.  They  travel  in 
their  wagons  to  pay  visits,  to  transact  business  and 
to  buy  supplies,  and  make  long  journeys  in  the 
summer  months. 


160  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


The  smell  of  the  sage  brush,  pungent  and  aro- 
matic, is  in  my  nostrils  from  day  to  day.  I love  it 
in  its  cleanness  and  spiciness,  and  shall  be  sorry 
when  we  have  left  the  desert  behind  us.  We  have 
to  be  watchful  for  chuck  holes  made  by  the  inde- 
fatigable gophers  or  prairie  dogs.  They  often  biu*- 
row  in  the  ruts  of  the  road.  Our  local  guide  leaf- 
lets, furnished  us  by  garages  along  the  route,  are 
full  of  warnings  about  “chucks.”  Once  we  come 
upon  a badger,  beautifully  marked,  who  has  thrown 
up  a large  mound  of  dirt  in  burrowing  his  tunnel 
just  in  the  middle  of  the  road.  He  sees  us  coming 
and  scuttles  into  his  hole.  We  stop  the  car  as  we 
get  near  the  hole  and  sit  motionless.  We  wait  pa- 
tiently until  finally  his  beautifully  marked  brown 
and  white  head  is  thrust  cautiously  out  of  his  shel- 
ter. He  is  very  curious  to  see  what  this  huge  black 
thing  is,  standing  silent  near  his  dwelling.  Twice 
his  head  appears  and  his  bright  eyes  peer  out  cu- 
riously. Then  the  click  of  the  camera  frightens 
him  and  he  disappears  to  be  seen  no  more. 

Occasionally  we  pass  motionless  bodies  of  go- 
phers and  rabbits  that  have  been  struck  by  the  fly- 
ing wheel  of  some  passing  motor  as  they  madly 
scrambled  for  safety. 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  161 


Late  in  the  day  we  passed  Fort  Bridget  with  its 
few  old  stone  houses,  probably  barracks  in  the  old 
days.  Shortly  before  coming  into  Fort  Bridget 
we  came  upon  two  draught  horses  feeding  peace- 
fully by  the  roadside.  As  they  saw  us,  they  imme- 
diately came  into  the  road  and  began  to  trot  just 
ahead  of  our  machine.  First  we  drove  gently,  hop- 
ing that  after  their  first  fright  they  would  turn 
aside  into  the  great  plain  which  stretched  for  miles, 
unbroken  by  fences,  on  each  side  of  the  road.  But 
no,  they  trotted  steadily  on.  Then  we  drove  faster, 
hoping  to  wear  them  down  and  by  the  rush  of  our 
approach  to  force  them  off  the  road.  Once  they 
were  at  the  side  of  the  road  we  could  quickly  pass 
them  and  their  fright  would  be  over.  To  our  dis- 
appointment they  broke  into  a wild  gallop  and 
showed  no  sign  of  leaving  the  road.  They  were 
heavy  horses,  and  we  were  sorry  to  have  them  thun- 
dering so  distressfully  ahead  of  us.  Then  we 
dropped  into  a slow  walk  and  so  did  they.  But  as 
soon  as  we  traveled  faster,  they  broke  into  a gallop. 
For  ten  miles  they  kept  this  up.  We  were  quite  in 
despair  of  ever  dropping  them,  when  suddenly  we 
came  to  a fork  in  the  road.  To  our  joy  they  ran 
along  the  left  fork.  Our  route  was  along  the  right 


162  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


fork  and  we  went  on  to  Fort  Bridger  glad  to  be 
rid  of  the  poor  frightened  beasts. 

A breeze  sprang  up  toward  sunset  and  we  came 
in  the  twilight  to  the  little  town  of  Lyman  where 
the  only  hostel  was  The  Marshall,  half  home  and 
half  hotel,  kept  by  Mrs.  Marshall.  As  we  came 
into  the  town  the  high,  snowy  Wahsatch  range  was 
on  our  right.  We  had  first  seen  its  distant  peaks 
about  twenty-four  miles  out  of  Evanston. 

Mrs.  Marshall  gave  us  an  abundant  supper  and 
we  slept  dreamlessly  in  a little  upper  room  with  one 
window.  Upon  what  a glory  of  sunrise  did  that 
little  upper  window  look  out  that  morning  of  the 
first  of  July!  The  vast  landscape  was  bathed  in 
lavender  light,  the  Wahsatch  range  and  the  moun- 
tains of  oiu*  Eastern  pathway  catching  the  first 
glory  of  the  coming  sun,  while  the  plains  were  in 
deeper  lavender. 

The  village  street  looked  like  a pathway  of  lav- 
ender. The  little  wooden,  painted  houses,  the  barns, 
some  red,  some  grey  and  unpainted,  all  glowed 
with  transforming  light  and  color.  Rohins  and 
meadow  larks  were  singing.  Far,  far  to  the  north- 
east was  a purple  horizon  line.  The  air  was  like 
wine.  I stayed  at  the  window  until  I was  half 


Wyoming  Cattle.  2.  The  Marshall  Hotel,  Lyman,  Wyoming.  3.  Before  Shearing,  Medicine  Bow, 
Wyoming.  4.  After  Shearing,  Medicine  Bow,  Wyoming. 


library 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  163 


frozen  in  the  cool  morning  air,  entranced  by  it  all. 

It  was  at  Lyman  that  we  heard  talk  of  the  ever 
smouldering  feud  between  cattlemen  and  sheep- 
men. Not  far  from  Lyman  is  the  “dead  line”  over 
which  sheepmen  are  not  allowed  to  take  their  sheep. 
On  the  other  side  of  this  stern  boundary  are  the 
cattlemen,  and  they  have  issued  a warning  to  the 
sheepmen  which  they  have  more  than  once  carried 
out.  A few  years  ago  a sheepman  either  purposely 
or  carelessly  got  over  the  dead  line  with  his  sheep. 
He  was  mysteriously  shot  and  two  hundred  of  his 
sheep  were  killed  in  one  night.  No  one  knows  who 
the  murderer  was.  Back  in  the  shadows  looms  the 
threat  of  the  cattlemen,  grim  and  real. 

We  had  been  told  in  Wyoming  of  the  buying  of  a 
big  ranch  by  adjacent  ranch  people  in  order  that 
no  sheepman  might  come  in  to  share  the  water  and 
the  ranges  with  the  cattleman. 

Cattle  will  not  feed,  they  tell  us,  where  sheep 
have  fed,  as  the  sheep  tear  up  the  earth  and  also 
graze  very  closely.  It  is  impossible  for  sheep  and 
cattle  to  graze  comfortably  on  the  same  ranges. 

We  left  Lyman  in  high  spirits  after  a good 
breakfast,  driving  along  with  the  Wahsatch  moun- 
tains on  our  right  and  with  detached  mountains 


164  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 

continually  appearing  on  the  horizon  as  we  moved 
eastward.  We  were  now  in  the  region  of  what 
they  call  in  the  West  “buttes,”  a “butte”  being,  so 
far  as  I know,  a detached,  isolated  mass  of  moun- 
tain. The  Wyoming  buttes  are  wonderfully  carved 
by  wind  and  sand  and  weather  and  many  of  them 
present  a mysterious  and  imposing  appearance. 
Often  they  are  table  lands,  rising  square  and  mass- 
ive against  the  horizon  like  immense  fortresses.  On 
the  way  to  Granger  these  massive  table  lands  with 
their  square  outlines  loom  up  against  the  grander 
background  of  the  snowy  Wahsatch  range. 

The  first  thirty  miles  out  of  Evanston  we  had  an 
excellent  road.  There  was  a charming  desert  flower 
growing  in  the  dusty  road  and  alongside,  white  and 
somewhat  like  a single  petaled  water-lily.  Its  buds 
were  pink,  and  it  sprang  from  a whorl  of  leaves 
like  those  of  a dandelion.  Its  fragrance  was  most 
delicate.  There  was  also  the  lovely  blue  larkspur, 
and  there  were  clusters  of  a brick-red  flower  which 
grew  rather  tall.  Then  there  were  clumps  of  some- 
thing very  like  a dark  scarlet  clover.  The  fine 
mountain  scenery,  the  fantastically  carved  buttes, 
sometimes  like  miniature  canyons,  the  glorious  air, 
all  put  us  in  delightful  humour  with  ourselves  and 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  165 


the  world.  At  the  little  town  of  Granger  on  the 
railroad  line  we  met  two  young  pedestrians  who 
were  walking  on  a wager  from  Kearney,  Nebraska, 
to  Seattle.  They  were  to  have  $500.  apiece  if  they 
reached  Seattle  by  the  first  of  August.  Their  yel- 
low outing  shirts  bore  the  inscription,  “Walking 
from  Kearney,  Nebraska,  to  Seattle.”  They  told 
us  they  were  able  to  make  forty  miles  a day.  When 
they  reached  Salt  Lake  City  they  were  to  have  sub- 
stantial new  walking  boots  from  the  merchants  at 
Kearney,  the  bargain  being  that  at  that  point  they 
were  to  return  their  worn  boots  to  be  exhibited  in 
the  shop  windows  of  Kearney.  They  had  been 
halted  at  Granger  because  of  lack  of  money,  having 
miscalculated  their  needs.  They  had  just  had  a 
telegram  from  home,  sending  them  money  and  as- 
suring them  of  more  help  if  they  needed  it.  They 
looked  strong  and  fit  and  were  perfectly  confident 
that  they  would  win  the  wager.  We  also  met  two 
young  motor-cyclists  from  Akron,  Ohio,  en  route 
for  the  coast. 

There  were  several  eating  places  at  Granger,  but 
it  was  too  early  for  luncheon,  so  we  pressed  on  to 
Green  River,  a Union  Pacific  Railway  town.  From 
Granger  to  Green  River  the  road  was  poorer  and 


166  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


more  bumpy.  Fine  masses  of  rock  and  carved  table- 
land rose  on  the  horizon  as  we  drove  along.  As 
we  approached  Green  River  a splendid  red,  yellow, 
and  clay-colored  mountain  loomed  on  the  horizon, 
which  as  we  neared  the  town  resolved  itself  into 
long  lines  of  buttes  back  of  the  town.  Teakettle 
Rock,  an  immense,  isolated  butte,  rose  to  the  left, 
and  Castle  Rock  was  just  back  of  the  town.  The 
butte  scenery  both  approaching  and  leaving  Green 
River  was  very  fine.  The  coloring  was  extremely 
rich;  soft  reds,  yellows,  browns,  and  clay  colors. 
There  were  long  lines  of  round  buttresses  and 
great  concavities  of  rock,  more  like  the  famous 
Causses  of  southern  France  than  anything  I have 
ever  seen. 

We  had  luncheon  at  Green  River  in  the  spacious 
dining  room  of  the  Union  Pacific  Station,  and  felt 
ourselves  quite  in  touch  with  the  East  to  be  eating 
in  the  same  dining  room  with  passengers  of  the 
long  overland  train. 

Our  drive  from  Green  River  to  Rock  Springs 
and  from  Rock  Springs  to  Point  of  Rocks  was 
through  lonely,  desert  country.  It  was  nearly  six 
o’clock  when  we  reached  Point  of  Rocks,  but  the 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  167 


sun  was  still  high.  Point  of  Rocks  is  simply  a wa- 
tering station  for  the  trains  and  is  marked  only  by 
a station  house,  a grocery,  and  a few  little  cottages. 
The  young  groceryman  has  fitted  up  the  rooms 
over  his  grocery  for  passing  travelers.  We  estab- 
lished ourselves  in  the  front  one,  lighted  by  one  little 
window.  It  was  very  clean,  though  very  simply 
furnished.  The  fioor  was  bare  and  our  furniture 
consisted  of  a bed,  a chair  without  a back,  a tin 
wash  basin  resting  upon  the  chair,  a lamp,  a pail 
of  fresh  water  with  a dipper,  and  a pail  for  waste 
water.  We  had  two  fresh  towels  and  felt  ourselves 
rich  in  comfort.  Next  door  to  the  grocery  was  a 
little  cottage  where  a woman  cooked  for  the  few 
railway  operatives  and  for  travelers.  Our  bacon 
was  somewhat  salty  and  our  coffee  a little  weak, 
hut  our  supper  and  breakfast  tasted  good  for  we 
had  the  sauce  of  hunger.  We  met  there  a young 
railway  operative  who  had  come  from  the  East  to 
this  high,  dry  situation  for  the  climate.  He  told 
us  that  when  he  first  came,  the  change  to  the  still- 
ness and  space  of  the  plain  from  the  bu^  city  and 
from  his  life  as  a journalist  was  so  great  that  he 
could  not  keep  still.  He  said  that  he  walked  fifteen 


168  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


miles  a day,  driven  by  some  inner  restlessness;  but 
that  he  gradually  became  used  to  the  quiet  and  now 
he  loved  it. 

We  had  an  evening  talk  in  the  grocery  with  a 
young  commercial  man,  who  said  laughingly  that 
these  accommodations  were  somewhat  different 
from  the  gorgeous  Hotel  St.  Francis  of  San  Fran- 
cisco. We  assured  him  that  we  did  not  mind  sim- 
plicity and  were  deeply  interested  in  seeing  our 
country  under  all  sorts  of  conditions.  He  was 
spending  some  hours  of  his  time  before  the  solitary 
train  came  through  in  persuading  the  groceryman 
to  commit  himself  for  a large  hill  of  goods.  The 
commercial  man  said  sadly  that  never  before  in  his 
ten  years  of  travel  had  he  seen  business  so  uncer- 
tain. 

The  water  at  Point  of  Rocks  comes  from  a thou- 
sand feet  below  the  surface  and  has  a slight  sulphur 
taste. 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  169 


CHAPTER  IX 

We  drove  from  Point  of  Rocks  to  Wamsutter, 
where  we  had  luncheon.  The  road  from  Point  of 
Rocks  to  Wamsutter  is  very  rough  and  we  were 
tormented  by  the  plague  of  these  roads  of  the 
plains;  namely,  gutters  made  across  the  roadway 
by  running  water  in  time  of  freshets.  One  has  to 
be  continually  on  guard  for  these  runnels.  Some- 
times they  are  very  deep.  They  give  the  machine 
a frightful  jar  and  if  one  comes  upon  them  sud- 
denly they  are  likely  to  break  an  axle.  One  must 
possess  one’s  self  in  patience  and  drive  at  a pace 
that  will  enable  him  to  slow  down  quickly  in  com- 
ing on  them.  Chuck  holes  and  these  gutters  across 
the  road  are  the  two  chief  difficulties  of  travel 
across  the  plains.  However,  many  a backcountry 


170  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 

road  of  the  Eastern  States  is  just  as  uncomfortable 
for  motor  travelers. 

On  our  way  to  Wamsutter  we  passed  a fellow 
traveler,  a gentleman  from  New  York  with  his  fam- 
ily. His  son  drove  their  car,  a Pope  Hartford,  and 
they  were  seventeen  days  out  from  New  York. 
They  had  ten  days  more  in  which  to  reach  San 
Francisco  if  they  were  to  help  their  friends  win  the 
wagers  which  had  been  made  on  the  time  of  their 
trip  across  country.  We  assured  them  that  they 
would  be  able  to  reach  San  Francisco  in  ten  days, 
barring  serious  accidents,  if  only  they  would  rise 
early  and  drive  late,  making  ten  hours  a day. 

Just  outside  of  Point  of  Rocks  we  had  come 
upon  another  and  a humbler  caravan.  A man  and 
his  wife  were  encamped  in  a canvas-covered  moving- 
wagon  by  the  roadside,  having  found  a patch  of 
grass  that  promised  forage  for  the  horses.  We 
stopped  to  talk  with  them  and  learned  that  they 
lived  near  Pueblo,  Colorado.  Having  planted  their 
crop  they  had  come  away  on  a prospecting  tour  into 
northern  Wyoming  to  look  up  better  farming  coun- 
try. They  were  now  returning,  traveling  by  day 
and  camping  by  the  roadside  at  night.  They  had 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  171 


had  what  is  called  mountain  fever,  due  they  thought 
to  the  bites  of  fnosquitoes. 

They  liked  the  Wyoming  country  they  had  seen, 
but  deplored  the  heavy  drinking.  They  told  us  of 
one  man  who  had  said  that  he  did  not  mean  to  go 
into  town  on  the  Fourth  of  July.  Everybody  got 
drunk,  said  he,  and  he  did  not  want  to  put  himself 
in  the  way  of  temptation.  They  spoke  of  a lovely 
farming  country  in  the  midst  of  which  was  a little 
town  where  saloons  were  open  all  night  and  all  day 
Sunday.  They  told  us  of  one  saloon  keeper  who 
had  been  hauling  barrels  of  whiskey  for  days  in 
preparation  for  his  business  of  July  4th.  He 
openly  boasted  that  he  meant  to  take  in  $3,000.  on 
that  day. 

As  we  drive  along,  we  constantly  see  the  remains 
of  former  camps  by  the  roadside. , Old  tin  teaket- 
tles, pieces  of  worn-out  campstools,  piles  of  tin  cans ; 
these  are  mute  and  inglorious  monuments  to  the 
bivouacs  of  other  days.  These  immense  Plateau 
States  are  very  dependent  upon  canned  foods,  and 
all  along  tin  cans  mark  the  trail.  We  have  many 
evidences,  too,  that  we  are  in  a sheep  and  cattle 
country.  We  pass  the  dried  up  carcasses  of  sheep 


172  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


and  the  bones  of  cattle  and  of  horses  as  they  lie 
upon  the  desert  near  the  road.  Often  the  fleece  of 
the  sheep,  dried  and  shrunken  by  wind  and  weather, 
sticks  to  the  bones  of  the  animal.  It  lies  where  it 
fell,  only  one  of  a vast  herd,  sick  and  dying,  per- 
haps freezing  in  a blizzard.  We  asked  one  coun- 
tryman what  the  sheep  did  in  case  of  the  fierce 
storms  that  sometimes  sweep  over  the  winter  plains. 
“They  just  hump  up  and  die,”  he  replied.  We  saw 
many  a shriveled  carcass  of  some  poor  animal  that 
had  succmnbed  and  fallen  never  to  rise  again.  But 
so  high  are  these  plains  and  so  dry  is  the  atmos- 
phere, that  nature  quickly  shrivels  these  carcasses 
and  they  are  not  offensive  as  they  would  be  in  damp 
climates. 

Out  on  the  desert  we  waited  for  a long  freight 
train  to  pass  as  it  stood  blocking  the  roadway.  The 
train  conductor  came  along  and  he  and  T.  ex- 
changed greetings.  “It’s  good  to  see  you,”  said  the 
conductor;  “you  motor  people  are  about  the  only 
signs  of  life  we  fellows  see  out  here  on  the  desert.” 

Coming  into  Wamsutter,  and  later  coming  to- 
ward Rawlins,  we  flushed  numbers  of  grey-brown 
prairie  chickens,  almost  as  large  as  hens.  They 
would  fly  up  from  the  sage  brush  as  the  noise  of  our 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  173 


machine  came  near.  There  were  some  large  flocks 
of  young  birds.  Between  Rawlins  and  Laramie  we 
met  late  in  the  afternoon  a large  caravan  of  mov- 
ers. They  looked  foreign  and  were  evidently  in 
search  of  new  farms  and  homes.  They  were  drink- 
ing, and  watering  their  tired  horses  at  a small  sta- 
tion on  the  railway.  There  were  plenty  of  little 
children  in  the  caravan.  One  woman  dandled  a tiny 
baby.  A little  farther  on  we  came  to  a second  and 
smaller  camp.  These  people  were  traveling  from 
Kansas  to  Washington.  “There  is  good  land  there 
still  that  can  be  taken  up  by  homesteaders,  fine 
fruit  lands,”  said  they.  One  man  had  seen  the  land 
and  was  acting  as  guide  for  the  others.  Their  wag- 
ons were  drawn  by  horses  and  bm-ros.  The  chil- 
dren were  sweet,  cheerful  little  people,  but  the 
whole  party  looked  somewhat  underfed.  I would 
have  liked  to  give  them  all  the  luxury  of  a hot  bath 
in  a big  tub  to  be  followed  by  a substantial  supper. 
They  had  their  water  with  them,  having  hauled  it 
from  the  last  point  where  water  was  to  be  had. 
They  deplored  the  fact  that  they  had  camped  be- 
fore knowing  of  the  Union  Pacific  Station  a little 
farther  on.  Water  is  a precious  thing  in  the  desert. 
We  have  passed  two  places  where  signs  read  that 


174  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


water  could  be  had  at  the  rate  of  five  cents  per 
beast  and  twenty-five  cents  a barrel.  At  the  wa- 
tering stations  on  the  Union  Pacific  Railroad,  the 
wells  are  the  property  of  the  Road.  Before  we 
came  into  Medicine  Bow,  we  passed  through  a little 
mining  town,  high  and  bare  on  the  summit  of  a 
ridge.  Just  outside  the  town  was  a bare  little  cem- 
etery, the  brown  graves  decorated  with  paper 
crosses  and  wreaths.  An  iron  fence  protected  the 
cemetery,  and  outside  its  boundaries  was  an  untidy 
litter  of  old  wreaths  and  crosses  which  had  been  dis- 
carded and  had  been  blown  by  the  wind  in  tight 
heaps  against  the  fence. 

Ten  miles  beyond  Medicine  Bow  the  character  of 
the  country  suddenly  changed.  We  came  from  the 
grey  and  brown  desert  into  fine  rolling  uplands  dot- 
ted with  the  new  homes  of  homesteaders  and  green 
with  the  precious  water  of  irrigation.  This  was  a 
country  newly  settled  and  bearing  every  mark  of 
prosperity.  At  one  point  on  the  road  we  had  great 
difiiculty  in  getting  through.  A careless  settler  had 
allowed  the  water  of  his  irrigating  ditch  to  run  out 
upon  the  road.  It  was  with  the  greatest  difiiculty 
that  we  succeeded  in  getting  through  the  mud. 
Only  the  help  of  some  fellow  motorists  from  San 


Road  in  Wyoming:  costing  $50,000  per  mile.  2.  Characteristic  Sign  on  Lincoln  Highway. 


4 


V./. 

y ‘ 


ILIBRARY 
,,  OF  THE 

“"''Mijiiy  OF  iLLims 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  175 

Francisco,  who  stopped  to  push  the  car  while  T. 
turned  on  its  power,  enabled  us  to  get  through.  A 
few  miles  on  we  met  the  road  commissioner  who 
proudly  called  our  attention  to  the  work  that  was 
being  done  on  the  roads  of  his  county.  He  told  us 
that  he  was  on  his  way  to  arrest  and  fine  the  care- 
less homesteader  who  had  flooded  the  road.  After 
this  fine  stretch  of  fertile  country  we  plunged  once 
more  into  a long  stretch  of  desert.  It  was  here 
that  I saw  and  welcomed  the  beautiful  yucca  that 
I had  seen  growing  in  California.  I saw  too  in 
Wyoming  quantities  of  cactus  blooming  in  broad 
patches  of  color,  usually  buff. 

All  day  we  mounted  one  ridge  after  another, 
buttes  to  the  left  and  to  the  right  of  us;  driving 
through  a vast  country  with  practically  no  ranch 
houses  and  only  isolated  stations  on  the  railroad  for 
watering  purposes. 

As  we  approached  Wamsutter  a wonderful  great 
tableland  lay  to  the  right  of  us,  very  high  and  with 
an  immense  level  top.  It  was  like  a fortress  with 
its  buttresses  and  ramparts  carved  by  nature.  To 
the  left  was  a butte  that  was  like  a side  view  of  the 
Sphinx,  an  immense  pyramid  rising  beside  it.  As 
we  came  into  Wamsutter,  we  drove  along  a ridge 


176  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


where  the  road  had  been  laid  to  avoid  a low  marshy 
tract  of  land. 

Red  Desert  Station,  just  before  reaching  Wam- 
sutter,  is  well  named,  the  buttes  having  wonderful 
color. 

The  day  was  hot,  and  it  was  a relief  when  the 
afternoon  sun  began  to  decline.  We  felt  that  we 
were  dropping  with  it.  But  we  were  dropping 
toward  the  East  while  it  was  falling  toward  the 
West.  In  the  afternoon,  out  on  the  great  plain, 
we  had  crossed  the  Continental  Divide.  It  had  not 
been  marked  by  any  visible  elevation  of  land  above 
the  surrounding  country.  All  was  open  country, 
rolling  and  vast,  and  yet  we  had  ascended  the  West- 
ern slope  and  were  now  going  down  to  the  Missis- 
sippi Valley. 

We  must  soon  begin  to  say  farewell  to  the  Pla- 
teau States.  The  long  upward  climb  is  practi- 
cally over.  We  look  forward  with  the  streams  to 
the  Atlantic,  leaving  behind  the  water  courses  to 
the  Pacific. 

Shortly  after  crossing  the  Divide  we  came  to  a 
low  head  stone  and  a wooden  cross  at  the  left  of 
the  road,  marking  the  grave  of  a man  of  thirty-five 
who  died  in  1900.  It  is  a lone  grave  on  this  rolling 


BYi  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  177 


ridge,  yet  it  is  destined  to  be  passed  by  many  trav- 
elers in  future  years. 

Some  day  the  Divide  will  be  marked  upon  the 
Lincoln  Highway  by  a monument,  and  the  trav- 
eler will  have  a satisfactory  outward  expression  of 
the  thoughts  that  fill  his  heart. 

Rawlins  was  our  halting  place  for  the  night.  It 
is  a pleasant  town  with  wide  streets  and  plenty  of 
sunshine.  The  post  office  is  a beautiful  httle  build- 
ing. We  fraternized  in  Rawlins  with  fellow  trav- 
elers, a lady  and  her  son  who  were  going  on  from 
Colorado  Springs  to  Pasadena  in  a beautiful  Stutz 
roadster. 

In  Rawlins  as  in  most  Western  towns,  we  stayed 
at  a hotel  managed  on  the  European  plan  and  ate 
our  meals  in  a nearby  restaurant.  It  is  always  a 
surprise  to  me  to  see  the  number  of  people  in  the 
restaurants  and  cafaterias  of  the  West.  Even  in 
small  towns  these  places  are  crowded. 

As  we  came  into  Rawlins  we  saw  Elk  Moun- 
tain rising  nobly  on  the  horizon  beyond  us.  When 
we  left  Rawlins  and  traveled  toward  it,  it  grew 
more  imposing. 

Instead  of  going  on  to  Arlington,  directly  under 
the  shadow  of  Elk  Mountain,  we  elected  to  turn  off 


178  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


to  Medicine  Bow,  made  famous  by  Owen  Wister’s 
book,  “The  Virginian.”  Elk  Montain  rises  12000 
feet,  and  Medicine  Bow  is  6500  feet,  above  sea  level. 
It  is  only  a railroad  station,  a tiny  cluster  of  saloons, 
a still  smaller  cluster  of  shops,  a big  shearing  shed, 
and  a substantial  stone  hotel  called  The  Virginian. 

The  landlady  of  The  Virginian  told  us  that  their 
hotel  is  always  full  of  guests. 

It  is  a busy  place.  Here  the  woolmen  come  to 
trade  and  to  export  their  wool,  here  the  sheepmen 
bring  their  sheep  for  the  annual  shearing.  Nearly 
sixty  thousand  sheep  are  shorn  annually  in  the 
shearing  shed,  a few  minutes’  walk  from  the  hotel. 
Here  the  plainsmen  come  from  time  to  time  to 
throw  away  in  a few  hours  of  drinking  and  gam- 
bling the  money  earned  in  months  spent  in  the  open. 

We  had  an  excellent  substantial  lunch  at  the 
hotel  and  then  went  over  to  see  the  shearing. 
How  hot  and  uncomfortable  the  poor  sheep 
looked  in  the  waiting  pen,  with  their  heavy  fleeces 
weighing  them  down!  They  stood  panting  in  the 
sun,  their  broad  backs  making  a thick  rug,  so  tightly 
were  they  wedged  in  together.  And  how  half 
ashamed  they  looked  when  they  came  out  from  the 
shearing,  thin  and  bare! 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  179 

In  this  establishment  the  shearing  is  all  done  by 
machinery.  It  takes  a skillful  man  to  run  these 
rapidly  clicking  shears  over  the  animal’s  body  and 
make  no  serious  wound.  The  overseer  told  us  that 
in  the  case  of  an  inexperienced  man  the  sheep 
would  “fight  him  all  over  the  pen.”  The  shearer 
reaches  out  his  right  hand  and  grasps  one  of  the 
three  or  four  sheep  that  have  been  pushed  into  a 
little  compartment  from  the  main  pens.  The  beasts 
stand  stupidly  huddled  together.  The  shearer 
takes  one  by  its  left  hind  leg,  and  by  a skillful 
twist  he  throws  it  on  its  back  and  pulls  it  toward 
him.  Then  he  yanks  it  into  a sitting  position  with 
its  back  against  his  knees.  Bending  over  it  he  takes 
off  first  the  thick  coat  of  wool  on  its  under- 
body from  throat  to  tail.  It  looks  very  easy,  but 
only  skill  can  guide  the  shears  through  that  thick 
mass  of  wool,  taking  it  off  so  cleanly  and  thor- 
oughly, and  yet  leaving  the  pink  skin  unbroken. 

Next  come  the  fore  legs,  then  the  hind  legs,  then 
the  wool  is  trimmed  from  around  the  eyes  and  from 
the  top  of  the  head.  The  workman  moves  very  care- 
fully here.  Then  the  sheep  is  righted  and  the  wool 
is  cut  from  its  back  and  sides.  It  is  interesting  to 
see  how  quietly  the  animal  submits  to  it  all. 


180  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


Quickly  it  is  all  over  and  an  attendant  pushes  the 
sheep  through  another  aperture  back  into  an  outer 
pen.  The  men  work  very  rapidly  and  a good 
shearer  can  easily  handle  one  hundred  sheep  a day* 
Some  expert  shearers  can  handle  nearly  two  hun- 
dred. These  men  are  paid  nine  cents  a head  for 
their  work. 

It  was  a picturesque  sight  in  the  long,  airy  shed. 
Six  men  were  handling  their  sheep,  the  clicking 
shears  moving  rapidly  over  the  big  animals.  A boy 
gathered  up  the  wool  as  fast  as  it  dropped  from 
the  sheep.  Later  it  would  be  sorted  into  its  dif- 
ferent grades.  An  important,  happy  sheep  dog  ran 
wildly  about,  eyes  shining,  tail  wagging,  his  sharp 
nose  lifted  to  his  master’s  face.  He  seemed  to  be 
saying,  “This  is  fine,  master,  but  isn’t  there  some- 
thing that  I could  do  at  this  moment?”  The  over- 
seer stood  at  the  end  of  the  shed  looking  down  the 
row  of  busy  workers. 

From  Medicine  Bow  we  came  to  Laramie,  reach- 
ing there  on  the  eve  of  the  Fourth  of  July.  Lara- 
mie boasts  a good  hotel  which  was  crowded  with 
people.  Ranchmen  had  brought  their  families  for 
the  festivities  of  the  Fourth.  Tall  cowboys  lounged 
about,  wearing  their  most  ornamental  tall  boots, 


Lincoln  Highway  Sign.  2.  Lincoln  Highway  Sign  in  Western  Village.  3.  Cowboys  and  Cowgirls 
in  Laramie.  4.  Sage  Brush  in  the  Desert.  5.  Last  View  of  the  Rockies  leaving 
Colorado.  6.  Movers*  Camp  in  Colorado. 


Of  THt 

v Of  au«ov. 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  181 


their  best  silk  shirts,  and  brightest  neckties.  The 
streets  in  the  evening  were  full  of  people,  some  on 
horseback,  some  walking.  Confetti,  those  noise- 
makers  known  as  “cluckers,”  and  the  miniature 
feather  dusters  called  “ticklers,”  were  all  in  evi- 
dence. Everybody  was  in  good  humour  and  in  a 
mood  of  expectation. 

The  morning  of  the  Fourth  we  drove  out  to  the 
edge  of  the  town  to  see  the  State  University,  a mod- 
est cluster  of  good  buildings.  Then  we  drove  about 
the  town  to  see  the  cowboys  on  their  handsome 
horses,  and  the  young  women  who  accompanied 
them,  riding  easily  astride.  There  was  to  be  a 
morning  exhibition  of  lassoing,  racing,  and  other 
feats  of  skill  and  strength.  We  met  many  people 
riding  and  driving  into  town,  all  in  holiday  dress. 
But  we  pressed  on  Eastward. 

We  passed  Red  Buttes,  having  a grand  view  of 
the  wonderfully  colored  Buttes  off  to  the  left. 
Masses  of  blue  larkspur  grew  in  the  fields  and 
alongside  the  Highway.  We  had  left  our  beloved 
desert  behind  us  and  were  in  rolling  grass  and  grain 
country.  Near  the  Colorado  line  we  turned  toward 
the  south  to  go  to  Denver,  thereby  missing  the 
Ames  Monument  on  the  direct  route  to  Cheyenne. 


182  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 

The  mountains  of  Colorado  now  rose  in  the  near 
distance;  rocky  peaks,  pine  clad  and  snowy.  At 
this  point  we  met  some  parties  of  travelers ; a motor 
party  from  Lincoln,  Nebraska,  and  another  from 
Lexington,  Kentucky.  Both  motor  cars  were  go- 
ing into  Laramie  for  the  celebration  of  the  Fourth. 
The  gentleman  from  Lexington,  who  was  driving 
his  wife  and  himself,  had  a beautiful  Locomobile 
roadster,  newly  purchased  in  Chicago.  His  car  had 
every  modern  equipment  and  convenience,  and  he 
was  mightily  proud  of  it.  We  all  halted  to  enjoy 
the  grand  view  of  the  country  toward  which  they 
were  moving  and  which  we  were  leaving  behind  us. 
Miles  of  rolling,  grassy  country,  clean  and  wind- 
swept, lay  to  the  west.  It  was  an  inspiring  pros- 
pect, and  filled  us  all  with  a sense  of  exaltation. 
Said  the  Kentucky  lady  to  me,  “I  felt  as  if  every- 
thing bad  in  me  was  swept  clear  out  of  me  when  I 
first  looked  at  this  wonderful  view.”  A third 
party  of  travelers  came  along  from  Cheyenne  as  we 
stood  gazing.  They  had  a unique  outfit,  a prairie 
schooner  drawn  by  four  burros  abreast.  The  father 
and  mother,  several  children,  and  a friend  lived 
cheerfully  in  this  moving  house,  making,  they  told 
us,  about  fifteen  miles  a day.  When  they  were 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  183 


short  of  funds,  they  encamped  in  some  town  and 
the  men  worked  to  replenish  the  treasury.  They 
had  their  household  food  supplies  neatly  packed  on 
shelves  running  along  the  sides  of  their  canvas 
canopy. 

“This  is  our  home,”  said  the  husband  and  father. 
The  children  were  gentle  little  creatures,  but  looked 
thin  and  underfed.  All  were  bound  for  some  un- 
known haven  on  the  Pacific  coast  or  in  the  North- 
west. They  felt  sure  that  they  would  find  rich 
farming  country  there  still  open  to  homesteaders. 

What  a contrast  between  the  elegant  Locomobile 
car  and  the  humble  prairie  wagon,  drawn  by  four 
shaggy  burros,  chosen  because  they  could  endure 
hardships ! Our  friends  of  the  wagon  allowed  us  to 
take  their  picture,  and  we  parted  with  mutual  good 
wishes. 

We  passed  the  Colorado  State  boundary  marked 
by  a very  simple  board  sign,  and  came  into  a new 
country  of  rocks  and  hills.  We  came  through  a 
canyon  where  we  found  some  movers  encamped  in 
a pleasant  hollow  by  a mountain  stream.  South- 
ward we  moved,  passing  some  fine  rugged  buttes 
to  our  left.  We  took  luncheon  at  a pleasant  farm 
house  hotel,  known  as  the  Little  Forks  Hotel.  Our 


184  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 

farmer  host  and  hostess  were  very  agreeable  and 
gave  us  a refreshing  meal.  We  left  them  to  drive 
on  through  Fort  Collins,  a very  pleasant  town  in 
the  midst  of  alfalfa  fields. 

Just  south  of  Fort  Collins  we  turned  to  the  right, 
drove  across  the  plains  and  entered  the  mouth  of 
the  Big  Thompson  Canyon.  We  were  en  route  for 
the  famous  tract  of  mountain  meadow,  of  forest  and 
canyon,  known  as  Estes  Park. 

A long  procession  of  motor  cars  was  entering  the 
park  and  another  line  of  cars  kept  passing  us. 
Many  people  were  driving  up  the  Canyon  and  many 
were  leaving  after  a day  spent  in  picnicking.  For 
the  most  part  the  Canyon  road  ran  very  low  and 
close  to  the  bed  of  the  brawling  river.  It  was  a 
most  lovely  road,  winding  and  picturesque.  Finally 
we  came  to  the  end  of  the  Canyon  and  entered  the 
green  meadows  which  are  at  the  beginning  of  the 
Park  itself. 

We  were  told  that  the  hotels  and  camps  were 
crowded,  it  being  holiday  time,  and  that  we  would 
do  well  to  stop  at  the  simple  but  comfortable  ranch 
house  located  near  by.  We  found  ourselves  com- 
fortable indeed  and  were  content  to  make  the  ranch 
house  a base  for  our  driving  expeditions. 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  185 


We  were  on  the  beautiful  Lord  Dunraven  Ranch, 
with  its  rich  meadows  admirably  adapted  for  cattle 
grazing.  Our  host  was  the  manager  of  the  ranch, 
now  largely  owned  by  Mr.  Stanley,  the  manufac- 
turer of  the  Stanley  Steamer.  Farther  up  the  val- 
ley was  the  beautiful  Stanley  Hotel. 

I had  thought  that  Estes  Park  was  a smooth  and 
shaven  park  region,  not  realzing  that  it  was 
a vast  mountain  territory,  with  high  mountain 
meadows  overlooked  by  lofty  peaks  and  diversified 
by  tracts  of  mountain  forest.  There  are  scores  of 
miles  of  driving  and  horseback  riding  in  the  Park, 
plenty  of  hotels  and  camps  in  wonderfully  beautiful 
situations,  and  glorious  fishing  and  mountain  climb- 
ing. One  may  gaze  at  the  mountains  from  great 
open  meadows  and  camping  sites  from  8000  to 
9000  feet  above  sea  level.  We  lamented  the  fact 
that  we  had  only  a day  in  which  to  see  Estes  Park. 
We  could  have  spent  a week  there  in  driving  and 
walking  about. 

Colorado  is  rich  in  mountain  scenery  and  in  beau- 
tiful camping  places  for  the  lover  of  hills  and 
streams,  the  pedestrian  and  the  fisherman. 

We  came  down  from  the  high  plateau  of  the  Park 
by  the  canyon  of  the  Little  Thompson;  a still  more 


186  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


precipitous  road  than  that  of  the  Big  Thompson 
Canyon.  Reaching  Lyons,  we  turned  toward 
Boulder,  driving  along  with  alfalfa  meadows  to  the 
left  and  the  foot  hills  of  the  Rockies  to  the  right. 
Our  undulating  road  was  an  excellent  one. 

We  enjoyed  the  wide  sky,  the  rich  grassy  plains 
stretching  away  to  our  left,  with  ranch  houses 
marked  here  and  there  by  clumps  of  cottonwood 
trees.  We  knew  that  this  was  irrigated  country, 
reclaimed  from  what  was  once  a wide  desert.  After 
a time  we  passed  a wagon,  canvas  covered,  drawn 
by  two  plodding  horses.  I thought  the  driver  must 
be  foreign,  as  he  turned  out  to  the  left  when  we 
came  up  behind  him,  but  he  quickly  recovered  him- 
self and  turned  right.  We  soon  left  him  far  be- 
hind us. 

But  suddenly  there  was  a grinding  sound.  The 
machine  halted  and  refused  to  move.  We  were 
stalled  on  the  road  and  no  amount  of  effort  availed 
to  move  us.  Something  had  gone  seriously  wrong. 
There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  push  the  machine  to 
the  side  of  the  road,  and  wait  patiently  for  the  trav- 
elers in  the  covered  wagon.  We  were  six  miles  from 
Boulder,  and  evidently  had  a serious  break  in 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  187 


the  machine.  Later  it  transpired  that  our  gears 
were  broken. 

After  a time  the  wagon  came  toiling  along  and  its 
occupants  most  hospitably  invited  me  to  drive  into 
Boulder  with  them.  Two  men,  one  elderly,  the 
other  yoimg,  were  on  the  driver’s  seat.  In  the 
wagon  were  their  two  wives  and  a troop  of  little 
children,  the  family  of  the  younger  pair,  and  the 
grandchildren  of  the  older  pair.  A happy  collie 
dog  climbed  wildly  about  over  the  children.  “He’s 
the  biggest  kid  in  the  wagon,”  said  his  master. 

The  party  had  been  camping  in  a mountain  can- 
yon for  their  holiday  and  were  now  on  their  way 
home.  The  men  and  women  were  English,  the  older 
couple  having  been  thirty-three  years  in  this  coun- 
try. “I’ve  dug  coal  for  forty-five  years,”  said  the 
older  man. 

“Tell  them  you  rode  with  one  of  the  striking  min- 
ers, one  of  the  sixteen  who  was  put  in  jail.  Put 
that  in  your  book,”  he  said  with  a grim  twinkle. 
(How  did  he  know  I was  writing  a book?) 

“We’re  poor  but  we’re  gentlemen  still.  We 
wouldn’t  be  slaves  to  Rockyfeller,”  said  the  younger 


man. 


188  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


A little  later  he  asked  for  the  jug  of  spring  wa- 
ter, and  for  “the  bottle.”  The  women  looked  at  me 
dubiously,  and  tried  to  quiet  him.  “Come  now,”  he 
said  laughing,  “there’s  no  use  delayin’  matters. 
Where’s  the  bottle?”  So  with  some  embarrassment 
on  the  part  of  the  women  and  much  laughing  on 
the  part  of  the  men  a full  whiskey  bottle  was  pro- 
duced. Each  man  had  a nip  of  whiskey  and  a nip 
of  cold  water. 

The  children  were  merry  little  creatures,  climb- 
ing over  one  another  and  playing  with  the  dog. 
The  youngest  little  girl  slept  peacefully,  being  ten- 
derly watched  by  her  mother  and  grandmother. 

When  we  came  into  the  wide  streets  of  the  tmi- 
versity  town  of  Boulder,  I offered  as  delicately  as 
possible  to  pay  for  my  six  mile  lift.  But  they  would 
have  none  of  it.  “No,  no,”  said  the  younger  man 
cordially,  “we’re  glad  to  help  anybody  in  trouble.” 
So  I hastened  over  to  the  candy  shop  and  bought  a 
box  of  the  best  chocolate  candy  for  the  children. 
My  last  sight  of  them  as  they  drove  out  of  town  was 
of  the  little  faces  crowding  happily  around  the  box. 

In  Boulder  we  found  The  Boulderado  a delight- 
ful place  in  which  to  lodge,  and  the  Quality  Cafe- 
teria a place  for  admirably  cooked  food. 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  189 


We  had  several  days  to  wait  for  ovir  machine  to 
be  repaired,  so  we  were  free  to  enjoy  Boulder  and 
to  take  the  interurban  electric  car  for  Denver. 
Boulder  has  a most  picturesque  situation,  and  is  a 
town  of  delightful  homes  and  of  fine  State  Univer- 
sity buildings.  I saw  at  Boulder  the  same  soft  sun- 
set colors,  the  same  delicate  blues,  pinks,  and  greys 
that  one  sees  in  an  Australian  sunset. 

Later  we  drove  to  Denver  in  our  own  car  and 
were  free  to  enjoy  the  drives  about  the  city.  “The 
Shirley”  is  a very  well  kept  European  hotel,  and 
if  one  wishes  to  take  one’s  food  elsewhere  there  is 
“Sell’s”  with  its  delicious  rolls  and  excellent  coffee, 
tea,  and  chocolate;  and  there  is  the  Hoff-Stauffer 
Cafeteria,  presided  over  by  a woman  and  offering 
excellently  cooked  food  to  hosts  of  people. 

Every  traveler  should  view  the  sunset  from 
Cheesman  Park  in  Denver.  One  can  drive  there 
easily  over  the  fine  streets  of  the  city.  Beside  the 
pavilion,  modeled  on  classic  lines,  one  may  sit  in 
one’s  car  and  look  off  at  one  hundred  and  fifty 
miles  of  mountains,  stretching  from  Pike’s  Peak  on 
the  south  to  Long’s  Peak  on  the  north.  It  is  a 
grand  view  and  should  be  seen  more  than  once 
to  be  fully  appreciated.  One  may  sit  on  the  steps 


190  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 

of  the  fine  Capitol  building  just  a mile  above  sea 
level,  and  enjoy  the  same  view. 

Or  one  may  take  a famous  mountain  drive, 
winding  up  and  up  a stiff  mountain  road  until  one 
has  reached  the  summit  and  can  look  down  on  miles 
of  plains  and  on  the  city  of  Denver  in  the  distance. 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  191 


CHAPTER  X 

Leaving  Denver  in  the  afternoon,  we  drove  to 
Boulder ; from  Boulder  to  Plattville  and  from  Platt- 
ville  due  north  to  Greeley.  All  along  to  the  left, 
between  Plattville  and  Greeley,  we  had  fine  views 
of  the  whole  line  of  mountains,  and  particularly  of 
Long’s  Peak.  Again  we  were  impressed  by  the 
fertility  of  the  Colorado  alfalfa  fields  and  by  the 
rich  green  of  its  meadows.  Greeley  is  a very  attrac- 
tive town  with  wide  streets  and  with  pretty  homes 
set  in  green  lawns.  It  is  well  shaded,  stands  high, 
and  looks  off  to  the  noble  line  of  mountains  to  the 
south.  Early  on  July  15th  we  left  Greeley,  taking 
a last  look  at  the  glorious  mountains  to  the  south. 
We  passed  through  fields  upon  fields  of  alfalfa  and 
of  grain.  Great  stacks  of  alfalfa  everywhere  dot- 
ted the  country.  The  greenness  of  the  land  was 


192  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


refreshing.  Then  we  came  into  more  rolling  coun- 
try, less  cultivated.  We  were  plainly  in  a new 
part  of  the  country,  in  this  northwest  corner  of  the 
State.  The  houses  were  new,  and  often  small.  In 
some  places  new  houses  stood  alongside  the  old 
ones,  the  earlier  ones  being  made  of  tar  paper  and 
looking  like  little  cigari  boxes.  Some  houses  had 
tents  erected  near  them  for  use  as  barns.  Some 
houses  were  made  of  sod.  There  were  very  few 
trees,  most  ranch  houses  looking  bare  and  bald.  We 
passed  quantities  of  a beautiful  blue  flower,  grow- 
ing sometimes  in  great  patches.  Its  bell-shaped 
flowers,  sometimes  rose,  sometimes  lavender,  grew 
on  tall  green  stalks.  We  also  saw  a beautiful 
starry  white  flower  growing  along  the  roadside.  At 
Sterling  we  had  a particularly  good  luncheon  at 
the  Southern  Hotel  on  the  main  street.  We  ex- 
horted our  host  and  hostess  to  put  out  a Lincoln 
Highway  sign,  so  that  none  should  miss  their  ex- 
cellent table. 

We  saw  our  old  friends,  the  Matilija  poppies, 
growing  along  the  roadside  as  we  went  along  in  the 
hot  afternoon.  This  was  one  of  the  hottest  days  of 
driving  that  we  had  in  all  our  tour,  and  in  it  we 
made  our  longest  run,  two  hundred  and  eight  miles. 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  193 


We  took  early  supper  at  the  Commercial  Hotel  at 
Julesburg.  Not  long  after  leaving  Julesburg  we 
came  upon  a flamboyant  sign  which  announced  that 
we  were  nineteen  miles  from  Ogallala,  Nebraska. 
The  sign  also  informed  us  with  particular  emphasis 
that  Ogallala  was  “a  wet  town.”  We  had  crossed 
the  State  line  and  had  left  behind  us  Colorado  with 
its  mountains,  its  green  meadows,  its  wild  yuccas, 
its  Matilija  poppies,  and  its  dark  masses  of  pine 
trees. 

As  we  drove  along  in  the  dusky  twilight,  little 
owls  kept  flying  low  in  front  of  our  car,  attracted 
by  its  lights.  Sometimes  a rabbit  sat  in  the  middle 
of  the  road,  blinking  and  bewildered.  We  always 
gave  him  time  to  recover  himself  and  leap  into  the 
shadows  of  the  roadside.  We  had  had  another  ex- 
quisite sunset  with  the  same  soft  pastel  shades  that 
I had  seen  at  Boulder.  During  the  day  we  had 
seen  many  meadow  larks,  red-winged  black  birds, 
and  doves.  We  had  seen,  too,  many  sparrow  hawks, 
sitting  silent  on  the  fence  posts,  waiting  for  the  ap- 
proach of  evening.  In  one  place  we  saw  a poor 
young  meadow  lark,  hanging  dead  from  a barbed 
wire  fence.  He  had  evidently  in  flyipg  struck  his  ^ 
throat  full  against  one  of  the  barbs  and  had  hung 


194  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


there,  impaled  to  death.  At  Ogallala  we  found  a 
very  comfortable  lodging  house.  The  Hollings- 
worth, built  over  a garage.  We  had  a good  room 
there,  although  it  was  impossible  to  find  a cool  spot 
on  that  broiling  night. 

The  next  morning,  as  we  took  breakfast  at  a 
nearby  restaurant,  we  learned  that  Ogallala  had 
had  a grand  contest  and  had  “gone  dry”  two  weeks 
before.  An  enthusiastic  gentleman  who  had  taken 
part  in  the  conflict  told  us  that  already  the  town 
was  wonderfully  changed.  We  congratulated  him 
and  urged  him  to  see  to  it  that  the  sign  nineteen 
miles  to  the  west  heralded  Ogallala  as  a dry  town 
rather  than  a wet  one. 

The  next  day  was  cooler.  The  mountains  had 
disappeared,  and  only  wide  rolling  fields,  sometimes 
as  level  as  a floor,  lay  before  us.  We  were  crossing 
Nebraska.  We  came  by  a rather  poor  road,  really 
a grassy  trail,  to  North  Platte,  where  we  had  lunch- 
eon at  the  Vienna  Cafe.  As  we  were  driving  along 
between  Ogallala  and  North  Platte,  the  grass  grow- 
ing high  in  the  road  tracks,  we  came  suddenly  upon 
a bevy  of  fat  quail  walking  in  the  road.  As  they 
flew  somewhat  heavily,  I felt  sure  that  our  wheel 
had  struck  some  of  them.  So  I went  back  to  see. 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  195 


Three  of  them  lay  dead  in  the  road,  having  been 
imable  to  fly  in  time  to  avoid  the  wheels.  The  noise 
of  our  machine  had  been  muffled  by  the  fact  that 
that  we  were  driving  over  a grassy  road  and  they 
had  not  heard  us  until  we  were  on  them.  We  were 
sorry  indeed  to  have  killed  the  beautiful  little  brown 
creatures.  All  through  California  and  Colorado 
we  had  seen  them,  as  they  were  constantly  flying 
up  in  front  of  the  machine  and  running  off  to  cover. 
All  along,  the  killdeer  were  darting  about,  calling 
loudly  and  piercingly. 

Beyond  North  Platte  we  came  upon  a country 
house  which  had  been  pre-empted  by  a jolly  house 
party  of  girls  from  town.  They  had  put  out  some 
facetious  signs:  “Fried  Chicken  Wanted”  and 
“Votes  for  Women.”  We  stopped  to  call  upon 
them  and  told  them  of  our  trip  across  the  country, 
while  they  insisted  upon  serving  us  with  cake  and 
lemonade. 

Late  in  the  day  we  passed  some  groups  of  mov- 
ers, their  horses  and  cattle  with  them.  We  saw 
glorious  flelds  of  corn  and  of  alfalfa,  and  we 
saw  flelds  dotted  with  little  mounds  or  cocks  of 
wheat  and  of  millet.  Four  miles  before  coming 
into  Kearney,  we  passed  the  famous  sign  which 


196  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


marks  the  distance  halfway  between  San  Francisco 
and  Boston.  We  had  seen  a print  of  this  sign, 
pointing  1,733  miles  West  to  Frisco  and  East 
1,733  miles  to  Boston,  on  the  cover  of  our  Lin- 
coln Highway  guide,  issued  by  the  Packard 
Motor  Car  Company.  We  stopped  now  to  take  a 
photograph  of  it.  A woman  living  in  a farmhouse 
across  the  road  was  much  interested  in  our  halt. 
She  said  that  almost  every  motor  party  passing 
stopped  to  photograph  the  sign. 

We  heard  from  her  of  two  young  women  who 
were  walking  from  coast  to  coast,  enjoying  the 
country  and  its  adventures.  Somehow  we  missed 
them  in  making  the  detour  from  Laramie  to  Den- 
ver. We  had  seen  their  photographs  on  postcards 
which  they  were  selling  to  help  meet  their  expenses. 
They  were  sisters,  and  looked  very  striking  and 
romantic  in  their  walking  dress.  They  wore  broad- 
brimmed  hats,  loose  blouses  with  rolling  collars,  and 
wide  trousers,  tucked  into  high  laced  boots  such  as 
engineers  wear.  Each  carried  a small  revolver  at 
her  belt.  We  were  sorry  to  have  missed  seeing 
them  against  the  picturesque  background  of  the 
Wyoming  plains. 

At  Kearney  we  had  supper  at  “Jack’s  Place,” 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  197 


and  went  on  in  the  twilight  to  Minden,  where  we 
proposed  stopping  at  “The  Humphrey.”  We  passed 
through  long  fields  of  corn  and  over  lonely  rolling 
prairies.  The  cornfields  with  their  rows  of  tasseled 
stalks  were  like  the  dark,  silent  ranks  of  a waiting 
army,  caped  and  hooded,  standing  motionless  until 
marching  orders  came.  The  air  was  clear  and  fine, 
and  the  electric  lights  of  Minden  shone  from  afar 
with  the  brilliance  of  stars. 

From  Minden,  we  came  by  way  of  Campbell  to 
Bed  Cloud,  where  we  had  luncheon  at  the  Royal 
Hotel. 

We  had  made  this  detour  to  Minden  and  Red 
Cloud  in  order  to  call  upon  a friend  who  is  enthu- 
siastic over  his  fine  ranch  near  Red  Cloud.  Gal- 
loway cattle  are  his  specialty,  and  he  finds  the  roll- 
ing plains  of  southern  Nebraska  a fine  place  to 
breed  them.  From  Red  Cloud  we  came  on  in  the 
afternoon  through  Blue  Hill  to  Hastings,  and 
through  Hastings  to  Fremont.  We  were  en  route 
for  Lincoln,  where  we  hoped  to  spend  the  night. 
Between  Minden  and  Red  Cloud  the  country  is 
very  rolhng,  and  sweeps  away  from  the  eye  in  great 
undulations.  High  on  some  of  these  ridges  were 
fine  silhouettes  outlined  against  the  sky:  loaded 


198  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


wagons  bringing  in  the  sheaves  of  grain;  men  stand- 
ing high,  feeding  these  sheaves  to  the  insatiable 
maw  of  the  threshing  machine;  a boy  standing  in 
the  grain  wagon  as  the  thick  yellow  stream  poured 
into  it,  leveling  the  grain  with  a spade;  all  these 
and  many  other  pictures  of  the  Idyl  of  Harvest. 
For  two  hundred  miles  of  our  run  the  smoke  of 
the  threshing  machines  rose  in  the  clear  sky. 

Sometimes  the  fields  were  covered  with  stacks 
of  wheat  looking  like  great  yellow  bee-hives.  Some- 
times the  wheat  was  in  rounded  mounds  or  cocks. 
Surely  we  were  seeing  the  bread  of  a nation  on 
these  vast  Nebraska  plains. 

Along  the  roadsides  were  quantities  of  “snow  on 
the  mountain,”  its  delicate  grey-green  leaves  edged 
with  a pure  white  border.  Across  the  fields  the 
killdeer  were  flying,  and  calling  in  their  shrill,  clear 
notes,  which  always  seem  to  breathe  of  the  sea. 
They  were  not  out  of  place,  flying  above  these  long 
billows  of  brown  earth.  The  farmhouses  were 
marked  by  clumps  of  cottonwood  trees,  and  as  we 
moved  Eastward  a few  low  evergreens  began  to 
appear. 

Around  Blue  Hill  the  country  is  very  fine,  being 
a great  plateau  stretching  off  into  illimitable  dis- 


BX  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY.  199 

tances.  As  we  climbed  the  hill  to  the  little  town 
we  met  a farmer  in  his  wagon  who  had  just  des- 
patched a bull  snake,  a thick,  ugly-looking  crea- 
ture. We  stopped  to  pass  the  time  of  day,  and  he 
told  us  that  he  came  to  Nebraska  from  Illinois  in 
’79  in  a covered  wagon.  He  was  enthusiastic  over 
Nebraska. 

We  made  another  stop  to  watch  at  close  range 
the  operations  of  a threshing  machine.  It  was  a fine 
sight.  Two  yellow  streams  came  from  the  spouts 
of  the  machine ; a great  stream  of  chaff  which  rap- 
idly piled  up  in  a yellow  mountain,  and  another 
stream  of  the  heavy  grain,  pouring  thiek  and  fast 
into  a wagon.  One  of  the  men  told  us  that  they 
had  threshed  fourteen  hundred  bushels  the  day  be- 
fore, working  foiuteen  hours  in  fine,  clear  weather. 

Everywhere  the  lovely  grey  doves  were  flying. 
There  were  hundreds  of  young  meadow  larks,  too, 
and  great  numbers  of  red-winged  blackbirds.  It 
was  on  the  17th  of  July  that  I saw  brown  thrushes 
for  the  first  time.  It  is  interesting  to  watch  the 
movements  of  the  birds  as  the  machine  approaches. 
The  doves  in  the  road  fly  promptly.  They  do  not 
take  chances  on  being  struck  by  the  car.  The 
sparrows  wait  until  the  last  moment  and  then 


200  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


neatly  save  themselves.  I often  wondered  how  they 
could  escape  with  so  narrow  a margin.  We 
thought  that  the  red-headed  woodpeckers  must  be 
rather  clumsy,  as  we  saw  a number  of  them  that 
had  been  struck  by  other  cars,  and  thrown  just  off 
the  road. 

It  was  impossible  to  reach  Lincoln  that  night,  so 
we  stopped  at  a country  inn  some  miles  away.  Ris- 
ing early,  we  drove  into  Lincoln  for  breakfast. 
After  a run  about  the  city  and  a look  at  the  build- 
ings of  the  State  University,  we  drove  on  toward 
Omaha.  Unfortunately  we  attempted  to  take  a 
cross-cut  and  found  ourselves  in  an  odd  situation. 
We  were  driving  down  an  unfrequented  hill  road, 
in  an  attempt  to  cut  across  to  the  main  road,  marked 
by  white  bands  on  the  telephone  poles.  We  sud- 
denly found  ourselves  hanging  high  and  dry  above 
the  ruts  of  the  road.  The  rain  had  worn  them  so 
deep  and  the  middle  of  the  road  had  remained  so 
hard  and  dry,  that  on  the  hillside  we  were  literally 
astride  the  ridge  in  the  middle  of  the  road.  This 
meant  a long  journey  on  foot  to  a farmhouse  to 
borrow  a spade  and  a pick.  It  also  meant  much 
hacking  and  digging  away  at  the  hard  earth  under 
the  body  of  the  machine  to  release  the  axles  and 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  201 


drop  the  wheels  to  the  road.  Finally  it  was  ac- 
complished. We  picked  up  the  farmer’s  children 
who  had  come  out  to  see  the  rescue  and  drove  down 
the  long  hill  to  the  farmhouse.  There  we  left  our 
implements  and  our  hearty  thanks.  How  hopeless 
it  seems  when  one  is  hung  up  on  the  road!  And 
how  blissful  it  is  to  bowl  along  freely  once  more! 
Still  the  doves  flew  about  us  by  the  hundred  and 
the  brown  thrushes  increased  in  number.  We  had 
more  level  country  now,  and  it  was  only  as  we  ap- 
proached Omaha  that  it  became  hilly. 

We  left  Omaha,  after  looking  about  the  city,  late 
in  the  afternoon  and  drove  one  hundred  and  eight 
miles  to  Carroll  in  Iowa.  The  flrst  twenty  miles 
out  of  Omaha  the  road  was  extremely  poor  and  very 
dusty.  The  trees  were  much  more  numerous,  black 
walnut,  maple,  ash,  and  catalpa  being  among  them. 

Just  as  we  felt  that  one  could  And  his  way  across 
Nevada  by  a trail  of  whiskey  bottles  so  we  began 
to  feel  that  one  could  cross  Iowa  on  a trail  marked 
by  dead  fowls.  I had  never  before  seen  so  many 
chickens  killed  by  motor  cars.  Perhaps  the  expla- 
nation lay  in  the  fact  that  all  along  our  one  hun- 
dred and  eight  miles  from  Omaha  to  Carroll  we 
passed  numbers  of  farmers  driving  Ford  cars.  As 


202  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


we  approached  Carroll,  we  came  to  a hill  top  from 
which  we  looked  down  on  a valley  of  tasseled  corn 
fields.  It  was  exactly  like  looking  down  on  an 
immense,  shining  green  rug,  with  yellow  tufts 
thrown  up  over  its  green  surface.  We  saw  hut  few 
orchards.  This  was  a corn  country. 

Carroll  is  a pleasant  little  town,  with  fine  street 
lamps,  and  with  a green  park  around  its  Court- 
house. We  were  surprised  to  find  so  good  a hotel 
as  Burke’s  Hotel  in  a small  town.  Its  landlady 
and  proprietor  has  recently  made  extensive  im- 
provements in  it,  and  it  is  a place  of  vantage  on  the 
Highway.  The  country  around  Carroll  is  very  fine, 
being  rolling  and  beautifully  cultivated. 

We  reached  Carroll  very  late  in  the  day  and  were 
obliged  to  take  our  supper  at  a restaurant  near  the 
~ hotel.  We  were  interested  in  a party  of  four  young 
people  who  were  evidently  out  for  a good  time. 
The  two  young  gentlemen,  by  a liberal  use  of  twen- 
ty-five cent  pieces,  kept  the  mechanical  piano 
pounding  out  music  all  through  their  meal.  They 
were  both  guiltless  of  coats  and  waist-coats.  We 
had  seen  all  through  the  West  men  in  all  sorts  of 
public  assemblies,  more  or  less  formal,  wearing  only 
their  shirts  and  trousers,  So  we  had  become  some- 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  203 

what  accustomed  to  what  we  called  the  shirt-waist 
habit. 

Many  customs  of  the  West  strike  the  eye  of  the 
Easterner  with  astonishment.  This  custom  which 
permits  men  to  be  at  ease  in  publie  plaees  and  in 
the  presence  of  ladies  without  coat  or  waist-coat  in 
hot  weather ; the  custom  which  permits  ladies  to  sit 
in  church  without  their  hats ; these  and  others  which 
belong  to  the  free  West,  the  Easterner  has  to  be- 
come aecustomed  to  and  to  take  kindly.  Several 
times  in  California,  and  in  Nevada,  when  we  asked 
a question  we  received  the  cheerful,  if  uneonven- 
tional  response,  “You  bet !”  “Will  you  please  bring 
me  a glass  of  water?”  “You  bet!”  “We’re  on  the 
Lincoln  Highway,  are  we  not?”  “You  bet!” 
These  somewhat  startling  responses  simply  indi- 
cated a most  eheerful  spirit  and  a hearty  readiness 
to  do  you  any  favor  possible. 

Leaving  Carroll,  we  come  on  through  Ames, 
Jefferson,  Marshalltown,  and  Belle  Plain,  into 
Cedar  Rapids.  Out  from  Carroll  we  have  rather 
bumpy  roads  for  some  time.  Then  the  road  im- 
proves and  is  exeellent  from  Ames  on  until  we  near 
Cedar  Rapids.  But  all  along  work  is  being  done 
on  the  roads  and  their  improvement  is  a matter  of 


204  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


great  local  interest.  We  pass  a point  in  Marshall 
County  where  they  are  working  with  a new  machine 
for  cutting  down  the  road.  I call  it  a dirt-eating 
machine.  The  commissioner  is  extremely  proud  of 
it,  and  calls  our  attention  to  the  immense  amount  of 
work  it  can  do,  and  to  the  huge  mouthfuls  of  earth 
which  it  bites  out  from  the  bank,  through  which  the 
wider  road  is  to  run.  We  are  charmed  with  the 
lovely  country  around  Marshalltown,  and  with  the 
very  beautiful  country  between  Belle  Plain  and 
Cedar  Rapids.  We  drive  through  the  campus  and 
past  the  buildings  of  the  State  Agricultural  Col- 
lege at  Ames  as  we  come  into  the  town. 

We  are  passing  beautiful  farms.  Here  we  see  a 
group  of  splendid  dappled  grey  Percheron  draught 
horses,  the  pride  of  a stock-farm.  There  we  pass 
reddish-yellow  shocks  of  oats.  The  country  is  more 
wooded  now.  We  see  maples,  oaks,  ash,  willows, 
and  black  walnuts.  Here  and  there  are  yellow 
wild  flowers,  somewhat  like  black-eyed  Susans. 
One  thing  we  remark  in  all  these  Middle  Western 
farms.  There  seem  to  be  almost  no  flowers  around 
the  farm  houses.  An  English  farmhouse  or  a 
French  farmhouse  would  have  a riot  of  flowers 
growing  all  about  and  making  a mass  of  color.  We 


B’X:  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  205 


miss  this  in  our  Western  farms  and  wonder  why  it 
is  that  we  see  so  little  color.  We  see  practically  no 
orchards,  and  very  few  grape-vines.  This  is  the 
country  of  wheat  and  oats.  We  have  left  the  or- 
chards and  the  vineyards  far  behind  us  in  lovely 
California. 

Cedar  Rapids  is  a busy  city  with  several  hotels. 
Leaving  the  city  on  the  morning  of  July  21st,  we 
drive  first  through  quite  heavily  wooded  country. 
Then  the  view  opens  out  and  we  are  once  more  driv- 
ing over  beautiful,  undulating  country  with  rich 
Crops  of  oats  and  corn.  The  perfume  of  the  corn, 
standing  tall  and  green,  is  delicious.  When  we  pass 
through  Mt.  Vernon,  we  take  a look  at  the  build- 
ings of  Wesleyan  College,  which  stands  on  a high 
ridge  commanding  a fine  view.  All  the  way  to 
Clinton  the  country  is  attractive.  After  luncheon 
at  the  pleasant  town  of  Clinton,  we  cross  the  broad 
Mississippi,  looking  up  and  down  its  green  shores 
with  delight.  We  are  in  Illinois  now,  and  find  Ster- 
ling and  Dixon  attractive  towns  on  the  Rock 
River,  a stream  dotted  with  green  islands.  The 
coimtry  is  very  open,  with  long  stretches  of  prairie, 
green  with  standing  corn  or  red-yellow  with  shocks 
of  oats.  We  spend  the  night  in  De  Kalb  at  a funny 


206  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


old  hotel,  built,  they  tell  us,  by  Mr.  Glidden,  the 
“barbed-wire  king.”  The  hotel  is  called  “The 
Glidden.”  Its  ceilings  are  twenty  feet  high  and  we 
feel  ourselves  to  be  in  “a  banquet  hall  deserted.” 
From  De  Kalb  we  make  a short  detour  into  Chi- 
cago, returning  to  the  Highway  at  Joliet. 

Joliet  is  a smoky  city,  full  of  factories  and 
busy  with  the  world’s  work.  It  is  late  afternoon 
when  we  reach  Joliet,  and  we  drive  on  to  Elkhart, 
where  we  put  up  at  a beautiful  hotel  with  every 
modern  convenience.  The  Indiana  roads  are  in  ex- 
cellent condition  and  take  us  through  a lovely  roll- 
ing country  of  oaks  and  beech  forests,  and  of  fields 
of  grain  breathing  pastoral  peace  and  prosperity. 

All  along  through  the  Middle  West  we  have  been 
pleased  to  see  the  immense  interest  taken  in  the  Lin- 
coln Highway.  Everywhere  one  sees  the  Lincoln 
Highway  signs  used  in  abundance  on  the  streets 
through  which  the  Highway  passes.  The  telephone 
poles,  the  garages,  and  sometimes  the  shops,  all  are 
marked  with  the  familiar  red,  white,  and  blue. 
They  tell  us  of  a Western  town  whose  citizens 
were  so  anxious  to  have  their  town  on  the  Highway 
that  they  of  their  own  responsibility  painted  red, 
white,  and  blue  signs  on  the  telephone  poles  lead- 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  207 


ing  into  and  through  the  town.  Later  they  were 
reluctantly  obliged  to  paint  out  these  signs,  as  the 
Highway  was  not  taken  through  their  town. 

The  names  of  the  farms  in  the  Middle  West  are 
many  of  them  very  interesting;  as  “Rolling  Prairie 
Farm,”  “Round  Prairie  Farm,”  “Burr  Oak  Valley 
Farm,”  “Hickory  Grove  Farm,”  and  “Hill  Brook 
Farm.” 

At  the  entrance  to  a farm  in  Illinois  a farmer 
has  nailed  a shelf  to  a telephone  pole  near  his  gate, 
and  on  this  shelf  he  has  placed  a small  bust  of  Lin- 
coln. I fancy  this  is  a prophecy  of  many  monu- 
ments that  we  shall  see  along  the  Lincoln  High- 
way in  days  to  come. 

We  come  into  Ohio  through  the  pleasant  town 
of  Van  Wert,  and  drive  on  through  fields  of  corn 
and  wheat  to  Lima ; and  here  we  leave  the  Lincoln 
Highway  for  the  present.  We  are  to  make  a de- 
tour into  Logan  County,  and  from  there  we  plan 
to  travel  southeast  into  the  Old  Dominion. 

We  spend  a number  of  days  in  Logan  County, 
driving  about  over  the  hills  and  through  the  val- 
leys. This,  too,  is  rolling  country.  I know  it  well, 
for  here  I spent  my  childhood.  I know  these  for- 
ests of  oak  and  hickory,  and  these  rich  fields  of  corn 


208  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


and  wheat.  I know  the  delicious  scent  of  clover 
fields  in  the  warm  summer  twilights.  I recall  the 
names  that  my  girlhood  friend  and  I used  to  give 
to  the  farmhouses  as  we  drove  about;  “The  Potato 
House,”  “The  Dinner  Bell  House,”  “The  Little 
Red  House,”  and  others.  They  are  all  there,  and 
but  little  changed,  although  the  people  who  live  in 
them  have  probably  changed. 

We  are  told  by  a friend,  who  is  a motor  enthu- 
siast, that  she  recently  killed  a turkey  on  the  road. 
In  all  my  motoring  experience  I have  never  seen  a 
turkey,  a guinea  fowl  or  a duck,  killed  by  a motor. 
But  my  friend  tells  me  that  they  found  it  impossi- 
ble to  escape  this  particular  turkey,  as  he  refused 
to  get  out  of  the  way. 

We  passed  three  little  girls  one  day,  all  astride 
the  same  horse,  driving  the  cows  home  from  pas- 
ture. We  asked  them  to  stand  while  we  took  their 
picture.  They  were  greatly  distressed.  “We  have 
on  our  dirty  clothes,”  said  they.  “Never  mind,” 
we  said.  “But  our  hair  isn’t  combed!”  they  ex- 
claimed. “Never  mind,”  we  said  again.  “You  will 
look  all  right  in  the  picture.”  And  so  they  do. 

The  devices  and  pennants  with  which  motorists 
advertise  themselves  and  express  their  enjoyment 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  209 


are  very  interesting.  Some  carry  pennants  with 
the  names  of  the  towns  or  the  States  from  which 
they  come.  Others  carry  pennants  with  the  names 
of  all  the  principal  towns  which  they  have  visited. 
Whole  clusters  of  pennants  are  fastened  about  the 
car,  and  float  gaily  in  the  wind.  Some  carry  a pen- 
nant across  the  rear  of  the  tonneau,  which  reads, 
“Excuse  my  dust.”  Others  carry  a pennant  in 
the  same  place  which  reads,  “Thank  you.” 

We  infer  that  this  must  be  by  way  of  courtesy 
to  those  cars  which  turn  out  for  them  to  pass  and  fly 
on  ahead.  We  meet  many  tourists  in  the  Middle 
West  who  have  been  for  more  or  less  extended  tours 
in  the  States  near  their  own. 


210  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


CHAPTER  XI 

We  were  sorry  to  leave  the  wooded  hills  and  the 
green  valleys  of  Logan  County  and  press  on  to  the 
southeast.  Driving  through  Delaware,  Ohio,  we 
stopped  to  see  the  campus  and  fine  buildings  of 
Ohio  Wesleyan  University,  and  then  came  on  by 
way  of  Columbus  to  Granville.  Leaving  Colum- 
bus we  found  the  road  very  wet  and  heavy  from  the 
recent  rains,  which  had  fallen  after  a drought  of 
many  weeks.  We  lost  our  way  in  coming  into 
Granville,  and  had  to  inquire  directions  at  the  house 
of  a farmer.  He  was  so  kindly  that  we  were  moved 
to  express  to  him  a hope  that  he  might  some  day 
have  a motor.  “Well,  I don’t  begrudge  ’em  to  no- 
body even  if  I can’t  have  one  myself,”  said  he  cheer- 
fully. 

We  came  into  the  broad  main  street  of  Gran- 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  211 


ville,  the  lights  shining,  the  leaves  of  the  maple 
trees  glistening  with  the  rain  which  had  fallen  ear- 
lier in  the  day.  If  ever  there  was  a New  England 
town  in  a Western  State,  Granville  is  that  town. 
It  was  founded  more  than  a hundred  years  ago  by 
Connecticut  people,  and  it  bears  the  impress  of  its 
founders  to-day.  Its  wide  street,  its  old  churches, 
its  white  houses  with  green  shutters,  its  look  of  com- 
fort and  cleanliness,  all  are  typically  New  England. 
We  had  a most  comfortable  night  at  the  old  fash- 
ioned Hotel  Buxton,  and  drove  up  on  the  hill  in 
the  beautiful  clear  morning  to  see  the  buildings  of 
Denison  University.  The  University  is  very  finely 
situated  on  a high  ridge  overlooking  the  wooded 
town,  and  commanding  a fine  view  of  the  green 
valley  beyond.  There  is  a brick  terrace  on  the  hill- 
side, with  an  ornamental  sundial,  where  one  may 
enjoy  the  rich  champaign  below.  Back  of  the  col- 
lege buildings,  which  look  out  over  the  valley,  the 
hill  plunges  down  into  a fine  forest  of  beeches.  The 
student  at  Granville  has  beautiful  surroundings  for 
his  years  of  study.  Emerson  said  that  the  moun- 
tains around  an  institution  should  be  put  in  the  col- 
lege curriculum.  Granville  students  certainly 
should  include  in  their  curriculum  the  beauty  of 


212  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


beech  forests  and  the  richness  of  the  Ohio  farming 
country. 

From  Granville  on  to  Zanesville  the  coimtry  in- 
creases in  charm.  It  is  rich  and  fertile,  gently 
rolling,  diversified  by  fine  beeches  and  elms.  Here 
and  there  are  plenteous  corn  fields.  But  Ohio  farm- 
houses do  not  seem  to  cultivate  more  flowers  than 
do  the  farmhouses  of  Iowa  and  Illinois.  Reaching 
Zanesville  we  are  greeted  by  a great  sign  suspended 
across  the  road  above  our  heads.  It  reads,  “Hello! 
Glad  you  came.  Just  drive  carefully.  Zanesville 
Motorcycle  Cluh.”  In  leaving  we  pass  under  a 
similar  sign  and  find  that  it  reads  on  its  reverse  side, 
“Thank  you  I Come  again.  Zanesville  Motorcycle 
Club.’’  We  are  on  the  old  National  Road  now,  and 
find  it  rather  poor.  It  is  uneven,  and  is  rendered 
humpy  by  the  constant  road  bars.  The  country 
grows  more  hilly,  and  the  towns  are  beginning  to 
change  character.  Newark  is  an  attractive  little 
city,  standing  rather  high.  “Old  Washington”  has 
very  old  red  brick  houses,  and  St.  Clairsville  is  an 
attractive  old  town.  The  towns  remind  one  of  the 
old  Pennsylvania  towns.  The  houses  are  built  flush 
with  the  sidewalk  just  as  one  sees  them  in  Pennsyl- 
vania. Many  of  the  farmhouses  are  built  of  sub- 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  213 


stantial  red  brick,  with  white  porches. 

About  nine  miles  from  Wheeling,  West  Virginia, 
we  come  along  a fine  road  to  a most  beautiful  hill- 
top view.  Prosperous  farms  and  farmhouses  are 
all  about,  the  farmhouses  standing  high  on  the 
green,  rounded  tops  of  the  hills.  The  National 
Road  being  under  repair,  we  take  a detour  in  order 
to  reach  Wheeling.  A hospitable  sign  at  the  en- 
trance to  our  roimdabout  road  to  the  right  reads, 
“This  road  open.  Bellaire  bids  you  welcome.”  We 
learn  later  that  there  are  in  this  region  what  are 
called  Ridge  Roads  and  Valley  Roads.  We  are 
entering  Bellaire  by  a Ridge  Road,  and  have  fine 
views  of  hilltop  farmhouses  and  barns,  and  of  hill- 
top cornfields,  all  the  way.  We  drop  down  a steep 
hill  into  Bellaire,  turn  north  to  Bridgeport,  and 
from  there  turn  east  across  the  Ohio  River  into  the 
city  of  Wheeling. 

From  Wheeling  we  drive  on  into  Pennsylvania, 
through  Washington,  a hill  city,  to  Uniontown. 
The  whole  coimtry  is  hilly  and  we  are  constantly 
enjoying  fine  views.  Around  Uniontown  many  no- 
ble trees  are  dying.  They  tell  us  that  this  is  the  lo- 
cust year,  and  that  these  trees  are  victims  of  the 
voracious  insects.  Beyond  Uniontown  we  sweep  up 


214  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


a long  hill,  over  a splendid  road,  to  the  Summit 
House.  The  hotel  is  closed,  so  we  go  on  over  the 
hills  to  a simpler  hotel  which  is  open  all  the  year. 
This  is  the  Chalk  Hill  House,  and  here  we  have 
true  country  comfort.  For  supper  we  have  fried 
chicken,  fried  ham,  fried  hasty  pudding,  huckle- 
berries, strawberry  preserves,  real  maple  syrup,  wa- 
ter melon  rind  pickles,  cookies,  cake,  apple  sauce, 
flannel  cakes,  and  coffee.  This  is  Pennsylvania 
hospitality.  Chalk  Hill  is  2100  feet  above  sea  level, 
and  we  have  fine  mountain  air.  We  learn  that 
Braddock’s  troops  in  their  famous  march  to  the 
West  passed  only  500  yards  back  of  where  the 
Chalk  Hill  House  now  stands.  We  ask  our  fel- 
low travelers  at  the  inn  about  a very  tall  monu- 
ment which  we  passed,  between  Washington  and 
Uniontown,  on  a hilltop.  It  is  eighty-five  feet 
high,  and  bears  the  name  of  McCutcheon.  We  are 
told  that  Mr.  McCutcheon’s  will  directed  that  all 
his  money  should  be  spent  in  the  erection  of  this 
monument  to  his  memory.  So  there  it  stands. 

Our  route  lies  through  Cumberland  to  Hagers- 
town, and  from  Hagerstown  through  Martinsburg 
to  Winchester,  Virginia.  We  are  crossing  the 
southwest  corner  of  Pennsylvania,  and  coming  into 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  215 


Maryland  on  the  northwest  corner ; passing  through 
a small  triangle  of  West  Virginia,  and  entering 
Virginia  by  the  northwest. 

Not  long  after  leaving  Chalk  Hill  House  we 
pass  on  the  left  the  comparatively  new  monument 
which  marks  Braddock’s  grave.  A beautiful  bronze 
tablet  on  one  side  of  the  granite  shaft  reads : “This 
bronze  tablet  was  erected  and  dedicated  to  the  mem- 
ory of  Major-General  Edward  Braddock  by  the 
officers  of  his  old  regiment,  the  Coldstream  Guards 
of  England,  October  15th,  1913.”  Another  bronze 
tablet  has  been  placed  by  the  Braddock  Memorial 
Park  Association  of  Fayette  County,  Pennsylva- 
nia. There  is  also  in  has  relief  a bust  of  Braddock 
in  military  dress.  The  great  seals  of  the  United 
States  and  of  Great  Britain  adorn  the  shaft.  The 
main  inscription  on  the  shaft  reads: 

Here  lieth  the  remains  of  Major-Gen- 
eral Edward  Braddock  who,  in  command 
of  the  44th  and  48th  regiments  of  Eng- 
lish regulars  was  mortally  wounded  in  an 
engagement  with  the  French  and  Indians 
under  the  command  of  Captain  M.  de 
Beaujeu  at  the  battle  of  the  Monongahela, 


216  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


within  ten  miles  of  Fort  Duquesne,  now 
Pittsburg,  July  9,  1755. 

He  was  borne  back  with  the  retreating 
army  to  the  old  orchard  camp,  about  one- 
fourth  of  a mile  west  of  this  park,  where 
he  died  July  13,  1755.  Lieutenant  Colo- 
nel George  Washington  read  the  burial 
service  at  the  grave. 

We  are  on  historic  ground  all  along  here.  A 
little  farther  down  the  road  we  pass  a tablet  on  a 
roadside  boulder,  erected  in  1913  by  the  Great 
Crossing  Chapter  of  the  Daughters  of  the  Ameri- 
can Revolution,  to  mark  the  old  “Nemacolin’s 
trail,”  so  named  from  the  Delaware  Indian  guide 
for  the  Ohio  Company.  The  tablet  records  that 
Washington  passed  this  way  in  1753,  1754,  and 
1755. 

On  the  right  of  the  road  we  pass  a very  old  farm- 
house of  red  brick,  back  of  which  in  a swampy 
meadow  is  the  site  of  the  camp  of  Braddock’s 
forces.  We  go  down  the  cow  lane  to  see  the  old 
camp,  whose  outlines  are  marked. 

We  are  in  a region  of  fine  old  stone  bridges,  and 
of  beautiful  orchard  country,  alternating  with  roll- 


Braddock’s  Monument  near  Uniontown,  Pa.  2.  Old  Farmhouse  near  Braddock’s  Camp.  3.  Historic 

Inn  at  Hancock.  Md. 


ubrary 

Oi  THE 

UKSVERbiTY  OF  ILLINOIS 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  217 

ing  hills  covered  with  heavy  forest.  At  Grants- 
ville  we  pass  the  old  Dorsey  House,  now  called 
the  Hotel  Castleman.  This  used  to  he  a hostel 
much  frequented  by  the  farmers.  A small  boy  who 
is  playing  in  the  street  and  who  is  sojourning  here 
for  the  summer  gives  us  this  information,  and  adds 
that  at  the  Hotel  Castleman  you  have  “lots  to  eat, 
and  plenty  of  it.”  We  are  sorry  that  it  is  not  lun- 
cheon time  so  that  we  could  put  his  statement  to  the 
test.  Passing  through  Grantsville  we  cross  the 
old  Castleman  Bridge,  an  immense  single  span  of 
stone.  Another  fine  old  bridge  with  very  sohd 
buttresses  spans  Conococheague  Creek. 

After  luncheon  in  Cumberland,  we  press  east  to 
Hagerstown.  We  are  advised  that  we  will  find  the 
road  far  better  if  we  drive  east  to  Hagerstown  and 
then  southwest  to  Winchester,  instead  of  taking 
the  direct  southeast  route  to  Winchester  from  Cum- 
berland. We  have  an  excellent  road  from  Cum- 
berland to  Hagerstown,  and  find  the  rich  orchard 
country  very  beautiful.  Ten  miles  from  Cumber- 
land, we  come  upon  a point  of  vantage  from  which 
we  have  a most  lovely  view.  As  we  near  the  town 
of  Hancock  with  its  famous  old  inn  the  coxmtry 
is  still  more  interesting.  We  look  down  on  the 


218  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


gleaming  Potomac,  winding  through  green  fields 
and  beautifully  cultivated  orchards.  This  is  fa- 
mous apple  and  peach  country.  Every  year  more 
of  the  virgin  forest  on  the  mountainside  is  cleared 
and  planted  to  young  apple  and  peach  trees.  The 
soil  and  the  climate  are  most  admirably  adapted  to 
the  growing  of  fruit,  and  there  are  immense  invest- 
ments in  these  beautiful  orchards.  What  a fair, 
fair  country!  After  we  pass  Hancock  we  look 
down  on  the  canal  near  which  our  road  runs.  A 
canal  boat  passes,  the  mules  walking  leisurely  along 
the  towpath.  A boy  stands  at  the  helm  looking  out 
on  the  beautiful  landscape  of  forest,  orchard,  and 
field.  Clothes  flap  from  the  clothes-line  on  the  boat. 
It  is  a fine  life,  we  think,  this  gliding  along  so  se- 
curely between  green  fields  and  orchards  and 
clumps  of  forest. 

Hagerstown  is  a pleasant  town  in  which  to  spend 
the  night.  We  enjoy  walking  about  the  streets  and 
seeing  some  of  the  old  houses.  Even  the  main 
street  of  Hagerstown  still  has  one  fine  old  stone 
house,  low  and  solid,  painted  yellow.  It  is  the  only 
residence  left  on  the  business  street,  its  owner  not 
yet  having  been  tempted  by  its  increased  value  to 
sell  it. 


1.  “Moore  House’’  at  Yorktown,  Va.,  where  terms  were  drawn  up 
after  the  Surrender  of  Cornwallis.  2.  Castleman  Bridge,  Md. 

3.  Old  Church  Tower  on  Jamestown  Island. 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLIMOi 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  219 


From  Hagerstown  there  are  fine  shale  roads  in 
our  drive  south  to  Winchester.  After  passing 
through  old  Williamsport  we  cross  the  Potomac  on 
a long  bridge.  All  along  these  roads  the  motorist 
is  annoyed  by  many  toll  gates  at  which  he  is  halted 
to  pay  toll.  These  are  the  landmarks  of  other  times 
and  of  old  customs.  These  roads  were  originally 
built  and  maintained  by  private  companies.  They 
are  fast  being  bought  up  by  the  State,  and  in  a few 
years  the  toll  gates  will  disappear.  As  we  ap- 
proach Winchester  the  country  becomes  more  pros- 
perous in  appearance  than  it  is  around  Martins- 
bimg.  West  Virginia.  Five  miles  from  Winches- 
ter we  pass  two  fine  old  red  brick  farm  houses  with 
white  porches.  We  are  at  last  in  the  Old  Dominion, 
and  look  forward  with  high  spirits  to  a tour  among 
the  Virginia  towns  and  cities. 

Winchester  is  a very  old  town,  with  a fascina- 
tion that  grows  upon  one.  It  is  a simple  little  place, 
with  a certain  placidity  and  quiet  that  are  very 
soothing.  Here  is  the  Winchester  Inn  with  its 
wide  porches  and  high  ceilings.  And  here  is  Mrs. 
Nancy  Cobles’s  private  boarding-house,  whose  very 
appearance  breathes  of  homelike  comfort  and 
Southern  hospitality.  The  Winchester  Inn  an- 


220  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


nounces  that  it  is  “refurnished,  refitted,  reland- 
lorded.” 

In  Winchester  is  the  little  old  building  used  as 
a sm*veyor’s  ofiice  by  young  Washington  when 
he  was  working  for  Lord  Fairfax.  Here  is  fine 
old  Christ  Church,  endowed  by  Thomas,  Lord  Fair- 
fax, whose  ashes  rest  underneath  the  church. 

In  Winchester  I begin  to  see  very  interesting 
and  perfectly  clear  traces  of  old  Colonial  days. 
There  are  quaint  old  names  on  the  grave  stones; 
“Judith,”  “Mary  Ann,”  “Parthenia.”  Here  is  the 
old  English  name  of  Fauntleroy.  And  here  are  old 
houses  with  fan-lights  over  the  doors. 

It  is  in  Winchester,  too,  that  I begin  to  sense 
the  tragedy  and  awfulness  of  the  Civil  War,  as 
traced  by  many  a sad  inscription  on  many  a grave- 
stone. Hundreds  of  Southern  dead  are  sleeping 
in  the  Winchester  cemeteries.  There  are  monu- 
ments to  many  unknown  dead.  “Unknown  dead 
from  Winchester  battlefield,”  “Unknown  dead 
from  Cedar  Creek  battlefield,”  and  so  on.  There 
are  monuments  to  “the  brothers  Ashby,”  and  to 
“the  Patton  brothers.”  How  young  are  the  ages 
given  on  many  of  these  stones!  Nineteen,  twenty- 
three,  twenty-nine. 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  221 

Our  most  interesting  call  in  Winchester  is'  upon 
a lady  who  is  the  owner  and  manager  of  a farm  of 
8000  apple  trees,  7000  of  which  she  has  set  out  her- 
self within  the  past  five  years,  “every  tree  in  a 
dynamited  hole,  every  tree  pruned  by  a govern- 
ment expert.”  She  tells  us  that  all  she  knows  of 
apple  culture  she  has  learned  by  a careful  study  of 
government  pamphlets.  Her  orchard  is  about  five 
miles  from  town,  and  she  drives  out  daily  from  her 
pleasant  home  . She  tells  us  that  her  apples  are 
sent  to  Jersey  City  and  there  kept  in  cold  storage. 
Late  in  the  season  she  sells  them,  getting  sometimes 
as  high  as  $7.50  a barrel  toward  the  end  of  the 
winter.  As  we  talk  with  her  we  wonder  why  it  is 
that  more  women  do  not  go  in  for  apple  culture. 
Surely  it  is  a delightful  vocation,  clean,  healthful, 
invigorating,  and  profitable. 

Our  friend  tells  us  laughingly  that  so  far  as  her 
experience  goes,  negro  servants  are  “still  proving 
to  their  former  owners  that  they  are  free.”  She  re- 
lates an  experience  with  a young  negro  maid,  who 
after  eight  months  of  happy  service  with  her,  during 
which  time  she  had  the  best  of  training,  suddenly 
left  her.  She  took  a new  position  just  across  the 
street  and  for  exactly  the  same  wages  as  her  old 


222  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


situation  had  given  her.  When  her  former  mistress 
asked  her  why  it  was  that  she  was  leaving,  she  gig- 
gled and  said  demurely,  “I  mus’  do  de  bes’  I kin 
fo’  myse’f.” 

From  Winchester  we  drive  to  Staunton  over  a 
fine  road.  From  the  fine  country  about  Winches- 
ter, dotted  with  beautiful  orchards,  down  through 
Harrisonburg  in  the  midst  of  great  grain  and  hay 
farms,  we  are  passing  through  the  famous  Shenan- 
doah Valley.  We  see  it  at  a disadvantage,  for  the 
months  of  dry  weather  have  burned  the  fields  brown 
and  dry  and  increased  the  dust  of  the  roads.  But 
it  is  beautiful  still,  a fair  and  prosperous  farming 
country.  We  pass  through  Harrisonburg  on  court 
day,  and  the  town  is  filled  with  farmers  who  make 
of  this  day  a general  market  day. 

As  we  approach  Staunton  we  come  again  into 
orchard  country.  We  have  been  passing  through 
many  miles  of  farms  devoted  to  grain.  On  the  left, 
as  one  enters  Staunton,  is  Chilton  Hall,  standing 
high  above  the  town.  Chilton  Hall,  kept  by  a wo- 
man, is  a fine  new  private  house,  transformed  into 
a tourist  hostel.  It  looks  most  attractive.  We  go 
on  into  Staunton  as  we  wish  to  be  in  the  heart  of 
the  town.  We  establish  ourselves  very  comfortably 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  223 


for  a few  days  at  “The  Shenandoah,”  also  kept  by 
a woman.  Here  we  have  for  a very  moderate  price 
a room  with  a private  bath.  We  enjoy  fresh  milk 
and  cream,  home-made  butter,  jams,  and  jellies, 
and  all  the  good  things  of  a hospitable  Virginia  ta- 
ble. We  visit  the  famous  Mary  Baldwin  Seminary, 
an  exquisitely  kept  institution.  We  also  see  the 
Episcopal  Church  school  in  its  fine  old  building, 
Stuart  Hall,  and  we  walk  past  the  Presbyterian 
manse  where  President  Wilson  was  born.  We  visit 
the  fine  cemetery  and  read  the  sad  inscriptions  on 
the  head  stones.  One,  erected  to  a young  officer 
of  thirty  years,  reads,  “Here  lies  a gallant  soldier,” 
and  adds  that  he  fell  fighting  “in  the  great  battle 
of  Manassas.”  In  this  cemetery  there  are  870 
Southern  dead  whose  names  are  given.  There  are 
also  about  700  soldiers  lying  here,  “not  recorded  by 
name.”  The  inscription  speaks  of  them  as  “un- 
known yet  well  known.”  There  are  quaint  names 
of  women  on  the  old  stones  here,  as  in  Winchester; 
“Johanah,”  and  “Edmonia.”  And  there  are  old 
English  names;  as  Barclay,  Warwick,  Peyton, 
Prettyman,  Eskridge,  and  Harrow. 

During  our  stay  in  Staunton  we  take  a day  for  a 
drive  to  the  Natural  Bridge.  It  is  charming  coun- 


224  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


try  through  which  we  drive,  growing  more  broken 
and  wooded  as  we  go  farther  south.  We  find  the 
road  bumpy  and  dusty,  but  not  at  all  impracticable. 
We  have  our  luncheon  with  us,  and  after  paying  a 
somewhat  exorbitant  fee  of  one  dollar  apiece  for 
entrance  to  the  natural  park  which  includes  the 
Bridge  scenery,  we  walk  along  the  ravine  beside  the 
little  river,  to  the  mighty  arch  of  the  Bridge  itself. 
It  is  a noble  span  of  rock,  of  an  enormous  thickness, 
on  so  grand  a scale  that  it  is  difficult  to  realize  its 
height  and  width.  We  have  our  luncheon  beside 
the  stream  in  the  forest,  and  drive  back  to  Staun- 
ton. The  wooded  Virginia  hills  and  the  fields  are 
beautiful  in  the  afternoon  sunlight. 

In  returning  to  Staunton  we  stop  in  Lexington 
to  see  the  old  cemetery  where  Stonewall  Jackson 
lies  buried,  and  where  his  statue  looks  out  from  a 
terrace  over  the  open  country.  We  also  visit  the 
very  beautiful  campus  of  the  Washington  and 
Lee  University,  and  the  hilltop  situation  of  the 
famous  Virginia  Military  Institute,  where  another 
statue  of  Jackson  stands  in  commanding  position. 
Were  there  time,  one  could  linger  for  hours  on  the 
University  campus  and  in  the  old  Lexington  cem- 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  225 


etery.  I find  a very  interesting  inscription  on  a 
simple  stone,  which  reads  thus: 

Samuel  Hays.  In  loving  remembrance 
for  faithful  service ; this  stone  is  erected  by 
the  desire  of  his  master.  He  was  loved, 
honomred,  and  trusted,  by  three  genera- 
tions. 

The  buildings  of  Washington  and  Lee  Univer- 
sity are  of  classic  type,  and  the  whole  campus  with 
its  fine  trees  and  its  many  white  porticoes  gleam- 
ing through  them,  makes  an  impression  that  is  best 
expressed  by  the  old  phrase,  “classic  shades.”  Some 
of  our  more  modern  universities  impress  one  by 
their  very  architecture  and  atmosphere  as  being 
magnificently  equipped  institutions  of  business. 
Washington  and  Lee  University  has  the  old  atmos- 
phere of  study  and  of  the  quiet,  ordered  life  of  the 
scholar.  The  Virginia  Military  Institute  is  par- 
ticularly interesting  to  the  traveler,  because  of  the 
vault  in  its  chapel  crypt  where  rest  the  ashes  of  the 
Lee  family.  Here  are  buried  Lighthorse  Harry 
Lee,  and  his  distinguished  son  General  Robert  E. 
Lee.  And  here  there  is  a beautiful  recmnbent 


226  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


statue  of  General  Lee  by  Valentine;  so  realistic 
that  the  dead  man  seems  to  lie  before  one  wrapped 
in  marble  sleep. 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  227 


CHAPTER  XII 

We  are  sorry  to  leave  the  hospitable  “Shenan- 
doah” when  the  time  comes  to  go  on  to  Charlottes- 
ville. We  drive  from  Staunton  out  past  the  Na- 
tional Cemetery  which  stands  on  a hill  overlooking 
the  valley.  We  are  soon  to  cross  the  ridge  between 
the  Shenandoah  Valley  and  the  other  great  valley 
known  as  Piedmont,  the  crossing  point  being  at 
Rock  Fish  Gap.  This  is  the  historic  point  where 
the  early  settlers  first  saw  and  laid  claim  to  the 
Shenandoah  Valley  in  the  name  of  the  King  of 
England. 

The  view  from  the  top  of  the  Gap,  which  is 
reached  by  a very  easy  climb,  is  strikingly  beauti- 
ful. On  one  side  is  the  Shenandoah  Valley  from 
which  we  have  just  come  up,  stretching  far  into  the 
distance.  On  the  other  are  the  fertile  rolling  hills, 


228  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 

and  the  miles  of  green  orchards,  of  the  Piedmont 
section.  Here  is  a view  which  shows  us  the  smiling, 
fruitful  Virginia  of  which  we  have  dreamed.  We 
descend  from  the  Gap  by  a very  fine  new  road,  and 
shortly  after  we  cross  a bridge  which  is  in  the  last 
stages,  so  far  as  traffic  is  concerned,  of  tottering 
decay.  At  each  end  of  the  old  wooden  structure 
there  is  a card  posted  by  the  county  commissioners 
to  the  effect  that  they  will  not  be  responsible  for 
the  safety  of  travelers  crossing  the  bridge.  It 
strikes  one  as  rather  incongruous  that  they  shouW 
warn  people  against  using  the  bridge,  save  on  their 
own  responsibility,  and  yet  offer  no  alternative. 
Just  beyond  Yancey  Mills  we  pass  an  old,  old  farm- 
house at  whose  gate  there  hangs  an  attractive  sign, 
“THE  SIGN  OF  THE  GREEN  TEA-POT.” 
We  decide  to  go  in  for  a cup  of  tea.  It  is  a charm- 
ing little  place,  kept  by  a woman  of  taste  and 
arranged  for  parties  to  sup  in  passing  by,  or  for  a 
few  people  to  make  a short  stay.  We  admire  the 
simple,  dainty  furniture,  the  home-like  little  par- 
lor, and  the  attractive  dining-room.  Everything  is 
beautifully  clean  and  we  sigh  that  we  cannot  make 
a longer  stay.  They  give  us  one  of  the  best  cups  of 
tea  that  we  have  had  in  all  our  long  journey.  The 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  229 


views  about  the  place  are  charmingly  pastoral,  and 
we  feel  that  with  books  and  walks  we  could  spend 
an  idyllic  fortnight  here.  Coming  into  Charlottes- 
ville we  pass  the  fine  campus  of  the  University  of 
Virginia. 

Now  comes  a delightful  week  in  old  Charlottes- 
ville. To  begin  with,  we  insme  our  comfort  by 
staying  at  a private  boarding  house  on  Jefferson 
street,  where  we  have  the  delicious  cooking  that 
makes  the  tables  of  the  old  State  famous.  We  find 
the  boarding  houses  in  Virginia  to  be  very  pleasant 
places  indeed.  We  enjoy  our  Virginia  table  neigh- 
bors and  we  enjoy  the  homely  comfort  of  these 
establishments.  When  we  do  not  know  the  address 
of  a boarding  house  we  are  accustomed,  upon  enter- 
ing a town,  to  make  inquiry  at  the  best  looking 
drug  store.  We  have  found  this  plan  admirable, 
and  are  indebted  for  some  very  kindly  and  prac- 
tical advice. 

While  in  Charlottesville  we  drive  about  the  coun- 
try over  the  red  clay  roads  which  are  so  beautiful 
in  the  midst  of  the  green  meadows  and  orchards. 
This  is  the  scenery  that  is  so  charmingly  described 
by  Mary  Johnston  in  “Lewis  Rand.”  Charlottes- 
yille  is  in  the  midst  of  a famous  apple  coimtry. 


230  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


where  are  grown  most  delicious  wine  saps.  All 
along  in  our  Virginia  travels  we  have  seen  evidences 
ot  a bumper  crop  of  apples.  Never  have  I seen  so 
many  apple  trees  bowed  to  the  ground  with  their 
rosy  crop.  Each  tree  is  a bouquet  in  itself ; and  a 
whole  orchard  of  these  trees  with  their  drooping 
sprays  of  apple-laden  branches,  many  of  them 
propped  from  the  ground,  is  a charming  sight.  I 
wish  for  the  brush  of  a painter  to  transfer  all  this 
color  and  form  to  an  immortal  canvas. 

On  a hill  near  Charlottesville  we  have  a never- 
to-be-forgotten  view.  Across  a little  valley  on  an- 
other hilltop  is  Thomas  Jefferson’s  “Monticello,” 
or  Little  Mountain.  Just  in  front  lies  the  town  of 
Charlottesville  upon  its  many  knolls.  And  on  be- 
yond, rank  on  rank,  stretch  150  miles  of  the  Blue 
Mountains.  The  hill  on  which  we  stand  has  a bald 
top  and  just  below  this  is  a fringe  of  beautiful 
young  apple  and  peach  orchards.  The  trees  do  well 
on  these  hills.  Lower  down  is  the  Pantopps  or- 
chard, which  once  belonged  to  the  Jefferson  estate. 

One  day  we  drive,  by  virtue  of  an  introduction, 
to  “Edgehill,”  a fine  old  estate  where  lived  Martha 
Jefferson  Randolph,  Thomas  Jefferson’s  daughter. 
We  are  only  a short  distance  here  from  “Castle 


1.  Conococheague  Creek  Bridge,  Md.  2.  “Edgehill,’^  near  Charlottes- 
ville, Va.  Old  Home  of  Martha  Jefferson  Randolph.  3.  “At 
the  Sign  of  the  Green  Teapot,”  near  Yancey  Mills,  Va. 


library 
OF  THE 

university  of  ILLINOIS 


I 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  231 


Hill,”  the  old  home  of  the  Rives  family  and  the 
present  residence  of  the  Princess  Troubetskoy. 
Another  day  we  drive,  by  a stiff  hill  road  winding 
through  the  estate,  to  “Monticello.”  The  trees  on 
the  lawn  of  “Monticello”  are  our  special  delight, 
as  are  the  views  from  the  hilltop  plateau  on  which 
the  house  stands.  From  here  Jefferson  could  see  in 
the  distant  trees  the  tops  of  the  buildings  of  the 
beloved  University  which  he  had  founded.  No 
wonder  that  it  is  on  record  that  Thomas  Jefferson 
spent  796  days  in  all  at  “Monticello”  during  his 
two  terms  as  President!  In  a family  cemetery  on 
the  hillside,  not  so  very  far  from  the  hilltop  lawn, 
rest  the  mortal  remains  of  Thomas  Jefferson.  He 
sleeps  with  the  members  of  his  family  about  him, 
and  on  the  plain  shaft  of  Virginia  granite  are  these 
words,  which  were  written  by  Jefferson  himself  and 
were  found  among  his  papers : 

“Here  was  Buried 
Thomas  Jefferson, 

Author  of  the  Declaration  of  American 
Independence, 

Of  the  Statute  of  Virginia  for  Religious 
Freedom, 

And  Father  of  the  University  of  Virginia.” 


232  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


We  spend  some  time  at  the  University  of  Vir- 
ginia, wandering  about  the  campus,  and  admiring 
the  old  buildings  of  classic  architecture.  Every 
visitor  should  stand  upon  the  terrace  of  the 
library,  which  commands  a beautiful  view  of  the 
quadrangle,  flanked  by  long  lines  of  professors’ 
houses  with  classic  white  porticoes  and  enclosed  at 
its  further  end  by  a hall  of  assembly.  On  the  lawn 
of  the  quadrangle  stands  a statue  of  Homer.  The 
bard  is  represented  as  sitting  with  his  lyre  in  his 
hands  while  at  his  feet  is  a youth  in  the  position  of 
a rapt  listener  and  learner. 

As  we  wish  to  see  as  much  of  Virginia  as  possi- 
ble we  drive  from  Charlottesville  to  Culpeper,  re- 
turning from  Culpeper  to  Richmond.  In  leaving 
Charlottesville  we  drive  past  Keswick,  a little  set- 
tlement around  which  the  country  has  been  taken 
by  many  beautiful  estates.  Our  route  runs  by  Gor- 
donsville  and  Orange  through  Madison  Mills  to 
Culpeper.  Not  far  from  Keswick  we  pass  a sign 
at  an  attractive  farm  gate,  which  reads,  “Clover- 
fields.  Meals  for  tomrists.  Golf.”  We  are  sorry 
to  be  unable  to  test  the  hospitality  of  Cloverfields. 

Although  our  road  is  more  or  less  indifferent,  we 
are  passing  through  beautiful  country.  Around 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  233 


Keswick  the  fields  are  beautifully  kept,  and  the  en- 
trances to  estates  are  marked  by  ivy-covered  posts 
of  yellow  stone,  rough  hewn.  Some  of  the  houses 
are  red  brick  with  white  pillars,  others  are  of  stucco. 
There  are  plenty  of  turkeys  and  chickens,  and 
hounds,  as  everywhere  else  in  Virginia.  We  begin 
to  see  clumps  of  pine  trees  from  time  to  time.  The 
oak  trees  of  the  forest  are  very  large,  many  of  them 
of  noble  height.  The  juniper  trees  are  in  blossom, 
their  blue-green  berries  making  them  look  as  if  they 
wore  an  exquisite  blue-green  veil.  In  Virginia,  one 
is  everywhere  impressed  by  the  richness  and  luxur- 
iance of  the  foliage.  All  along  the  roadside  banks 
are  clumps  of  hazel  bushes,  heavy  with  clusters  of 
nuts  in  their  furry  green  coats.  The  chestnut  trees 
are  full  of  fruit.  About  a mile  north  of  Gordons- 
ville  we  pass  a plain  shaft  of  light  pinkish-grey 
granite  on  the  roadside  bank  at  the  left.  The  name 
Waddel  is  on  the  shaft  and  the  following  inscrip- 
tion: 

Near  this  spot  while  yet  primeval  forest 
stood  the  church  of  the  blind  preacher 
James  Waddel. 

A devout  man  of  God  and  a faithful 
minister  of  the  Presbyterian  Church. 


234  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


Born  1739— died  1805. 

Socrates  died  like  a philosopher,  but 
Jesus  Christ  like  a God. 

From  his  sermon  as  narrated  by  Wil- 
liam Wirt. 

This  country  has  just  the  charm  that  I should 
expect  it  to  have  from  my  reading  about  Virginia. 
Here  are  late-blooming  honeysuckles  in  the  hedges. 
Here  are  men  drawing  wagon  loads  of  produce 
along  the  rather  heavy  clay  highways  to  market. 
Sometimes  they  drive  two  horses  tandem.  The  rear 
horse  is  saddled,  and  the  driver  rides  him  and  so 
guides  the  team.  Sometimes  a heavy  wagon  is 
drawn  by  four  horses,  the  driver  astride  the  near 
horse  in  the  rear.  Sometimes  we  see  farmers 
ploughing  with  three  horses  or  mules,  flocks  of  tur- 
keys or  chickens  following  in  the  wake  of  the  plough 
and  picking  up  the  luscious  morsels  thrown  up  by 
the  ploughshare.  Sometimes  we  see  fine  Hereford 
cattle  grazing  in  the  fields.  Then  come  the  reddest 
of  red  pigs  feeding  contentedly  in  big  fields  of  al- 
falfa. Once  we  pass  a farmhouse  with  late-bloom- 
ing yellow  roses  climbing  over  the  stone  posts  at 
the  farm  entrance.  Once  we  see  a man  ploughing 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  235 


in  the  fields  with  a mare,  her  mule  baby  running 
by  her  side  as  she  plods  along.  Near  Madison 
Mills  we  cross  the  Rapidan  river,  a rushing,  yellow 
stream.  As  we  near  Culpeper  the  wooded  coun- 
try opens  out  into  a beautiful  grazing  region,  the 
land  rising  and  falling  in  long  undulations.  Here 
and  there  in  the  great  fields  are  clumps  of  trees  giv- 
ing a park-like  effect  to  the  country.  All  this  is 
very  beautiful,  and  one’s  joy  would  be  undimmed 
were  it  not  for  the  traces  of  the  great  conflict  of 
fifty  years  ago.  We  are  coming  now  to  the  region 
of  Cedar  Mountain  which  is  locally  known  as 
Slaughter  Mountain.  Here  is  the  site  of  a bloody 
battle.  The  Confederates  were  intrenched  in  a po- 
sition of  vantage  on  Cedar  Mountain  and  the  Un- 
ionists were  advancing  across  the  fields  and  through 
the  forest  into  a sort  of  basin  below  the  mountain. 
It  is  quite  easy  to  understand  the  heavy  slaughter 
of  the  Union  troops ; for  on  both  sides  of  the  road, 
here  and  there  in  the  fields,  are  stones  marking  the 
spots  where  certain  officers  and  certain  groups  of 
men  fell.  Here  is  a stone  near  the  road  marking 
the  spot  where  Colonel  Winder  of  the  72nd  Penn- 
sylvania fell  as  he  was  advancing. 

As  we  see  these  stones  the  present  peace  and 


236  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


prosperity  of  these  rolling  grass  lands  is  emphasized 
by  the  bloody  background  of  the  past. 

We  stay  in  Culpeper  at  the  old  railway  hotel, 
“The  Waverly.”  In  the  morning  we  drive  about 
the  rich  country  and  are  decided  in  our  own  minds 
that  if  we  wished  to  come  to  Virginia  for  a great 
grazing  establishment,  this  is  the  part  of  the  coun- 
try to  which  we  should  turn.  We  hear  tales  of  one 
farm  where  the  owner  has  made  seven  cuttings  of 
alfalfa  in  the  course  of  one  year. 

We  make  a hurried  trip  to  the  National  Ceme- 
tery at  Culpeper.  12,000  Union  soldiers  sleep  in 
this  cemetery;  and  Maine,  Massachusetts,  New 
York,  Ohio  and  Pennsylvania  all  have  monuments 
to  their  dead.  The  granite  pillar  of  Pennsylvania, 
with  its  bronze  tablets,  keystone  shaped,  is  particu- 
larly fine.  The  noble  inscription  begins:  “Penn- 
sylvania remembers  with  solemn  pride  her  heroic 
dead  who  here  repose  in  known  and  unknown 
graves.” 

In  leaving  Culpeper  we  retrace  our  path  as  far 
as  Gordonsville,  and  there  turn  toward  Mechanics- 
ville,  on  our  way  to  Richmond.  Again  we  come 
through  alternations  of  open,  rolling,  exquisitely 
pastoral  country  and  lush  forest.  Between  Cul- 


by;  the  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY^  237 

peper  and  Madison  Mills  we  notice  particularly  a 
little  old  red  brick  church  set  in  the  forest  trees  by 
the  roadside.  A tablet  on  the  building  tells  us  that 
this  is  “Crooked  Run  Baptist  Church.  Organized 
1777,  rebuilt  1910.”  Crooked  Run,  a swift,  clay- 
red  creek,  hurries  along  through  the  forest  near  the 
church. 

One  thing  that  interests  us  in  Virginia  is  the  fre- 
quency of  family  cemeteries,  quiet  plots  near  the  old 
farmhouses  and  mansions.  Sometimes  they  are  sur- 
rounded by  low  brick  walls,  over  which  the  honey- 
suckle climbs.  Sometimes  they  are  open  plots  on  a 
knoll  in  some  field  near  the  house.  After  we  pass 
Gordonsville  the  fine  road  changes  to  a compara- 
tively poor  one  and  the  open  country  with  its  park- 
like appearance  gives  way  to  long  stretches  of  rich 
forest.  There  are  many  fine  oaks  and  clumps  of 
green  pines.  After  passing  Louisa  we  are  more 
than  ever  in  what  seems  to  be  back  country,  lonely 
and  apparently  sparsely  settled.  We  drive  over 
long  stretches  of  old  corduroy  road,  the  planks  now 
much  rotted.  Here  and  there  is  a comfortable  look- 
ing negro  cabin,  and  here  and  there  a negro  is  clear- 
ing land.  The  soil  looks  very  rich  and  fertile  after 
it  has  been  opened  to  the  sun.  At  a somewhat 


238  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


lonely  point  we  come  upon  three  little  negro  boys 
and  tell  them  that  we  wish  to  take  their  pictures. 
I stand  them  in  a row  while  T.  gets  his  camera,  as- 
suring them  that  each  boy  is  to  have  two  pennies 
for  standing  quietly.  They  are  somewhat  awed  by 
the  occasion;  and  when  T.  produces  a tripod  and 
begins  to  pull  out  its  long  legs  preparatory  to  get- 
ting a high  stand  for  the  camera,  they  are  terrified. 
The  face  of  the  oldest  one  melts  into  tears,  but  we 
reassure  him  and  the  picture  promises  to  be  a suc- 
cess. We  tell  the  proud  mother  of  the  oldest  boy 
that  we  will  surely  send  her  a picture  and  we  are 
glad  to  keep  our  promise  later. 

Farther  on  we  pass  some  forlorn  looking  negroes 
in  a field,  clearing  the  land.  By  the  roadside  sits 
the  baby,  a round  little  pickaninny  in  a rustic  baby 
carriage  made  of  a soap  box  on  wooden  wheels. 
We  stop  the  car  and  ask  if  we  may  take  the  baby’s 
picture.  The  older  man  looks  very  troubled  and 
says,  “I’m  afraid  not.  You  see  I ain’t  got  any 
money.  I just  got  this  heah  land.”  We  assure 
him  that  we  don’t  want  any  money  and  will  be 
only  too  happy  to  send  some  pictures  of  the  baby 
if  our  photograph  turns  out  well.  But  he  is  still 
dubious  and  troubled,  and  the  baby’s  brother  says. 


Three  Young  Virginians.  2.  An  Old  Homestead  on  Tidewater,  Va. 


LIBRARY 
OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOl 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  239 


“The  baby’s  mother  ain’t  heah;  we  dursent  do  it 
when  she  ain’t  heah.”  Evidently  they  think  that 
we  mean  to  involve  them  in  some  financial  obliga- 
tion or  to  cast  some  sort  of  spell  over  little  black 
baby,  contentedly  sucking  her  thumb.  I don’t  like 
to  be  beaten,  but  we  cannot  stay  to  convince  them 
that  they  are  mistaken,  so  we  say  “Good-bye,”  and 
drive  away.  From  time  to  time  we  pass  patches  of 
tobacco,  very  green  and  thrifty  looking;  but  there 
is  much  uncleared  land  and  there  are  long  stretches 
of  lonely  country. 

We  reach  Richmond  at  six  o’clock  and  are  so  for- 
tunate as  to  have  the  address  of  a charming  board- 
ing house  on  Franklin  Street.  Richmond  has 
some  excellent  hotels ; and  she  also  has  some 
very  attractive  pensions.  “Where  do  you  come 
from?”  asks  our  hospitable  hostess,  as  she  shows  us 
to  our  big,  comfortable  room.  “From  California,” 
I respond,  and  create  quite  a sensation. 

Richmond  is  worthy  of  a longer  stay  than  we  can 
possibly  make  this  time.  But  we  drive  for  a morn- 
ing and  enjoy  all  that  we  can  of  the  old  city.  We 
go  up  to  Monument  Hill  and  have  the  fine  view 
from  there,  looking  down  on  the  winding  James 
and  on  the  green  fields  of  Chesterfield  County  and 


240  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


Manchester  beyond.  We  drive  out  to  the  National 
Cemetery  where  6573  Union  soldiers  sleep,  5678  of 
them  unknown.  We  go  to  Church  Hill  and  see  old 
St.  John’s  Church,  where  Patrick  Henry’s  pew  in 
which  he  made  his  famous  speech  is  marked  with  a 
brass  plate  and  an  inscription.  We  drive  to  the 
other  end  of  the  city  and  see  the  new  part  of  Rich- 
mond with  its  wide  streets  and  fine  equestrian  sta- 
tues of  General  Lee  and  General  Stuart.  The  old 
houses  of  the  town,  built  of  red  brick  and  adorned 
with  white  porches,  with  pink  crape  myrtle  bloom- 
ing luxuriantly  in  their  door  yards,  are  particularly 
attractive  to  us. 

But  we  must  leave  the  old  city  and  drive  on  fifty 
miles  to  Williamsburg.  The  road  is  sandy  and 
somewhat  muddy  in  shady  spots,  under  the  heavy 
forest  foliage.  Nine  miles  out  from  Richmond  we 
pass  through  the  village  of  Seven  Pines,  the  region 
of  the  bloody  battle  of  Seven  Pines.  All  about  are 
extensive  forests  of  pine;  and  on  the  left,  after  we 
pass  through  the  village,  is  a National  Cemetery 
surrounded  by  a brick  wall,  just  as  are  those  of 
Richmond  and  Culpeper.  This  is  a smaller  ceme- 
tery, but  there  are  rows  and  rows  of  little  white 
headstones,  marking  the  graves  of  the  fallen. 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  241 


We  drive  for  miles  through  the  forest,  the  fine 
trees  growing  close  to  the  road.  There  is  a special 
fascination  in  driving  through  open  forest.  Here 
are  willow  oaks,  live  oaks,  and  green,  green  pines. 
Here  is  a heavy  undergrowth  of  young  dogwoods. 
And  here  by  the  roadside  are  persimmon  trees, 
loaded  with  fruit.  Wherever  the  land  is  cleared  it 
is  rich  and  fertile.  As  we  come  nearer  to  the  sea 
the  forest  growth  is  heavier.  Here  and  there  are 
negroes  working  in  neat  little  clearings  or  sitting  on 
the  whitewashed  wooden  porches  of  their  tiny 
cabins. 

We  are  in  water-melon  country  and  great  wagon- 
loads of  the  fruit  are  being  taken  to  the  nearest 
station  for  export.  All  along  the  road  we  see  the 
pink  and  green  fragments  of  discarded  fruit.  Peo- 
ple eat  water-melons  at  this  season  as  we  eat 
oranges  in  the  North.  We  can  see  the  remains 
of  many  an  open  air  banquet,  by  the  roadside.  We 
stop  by  one  wagon-load  and  I ask  a boy  who  is  driv- 
ing what  a water-melon  will  cost.  “Oh!  fifteen 
cents.”  “We  don’t  want  such  a big  one,”  say  I. 
“Can’t  you  sell  us  a smaller  one  for  ten  cents?”  “I 
reckon  so.”  And  he  picks  out  a huge  watermelon, 
and  passes  it  over.  As  we  drive  along  we  cut  out 


242  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


cubic  pieces  of  the  pink  delicacy.  Never  have  we 
tasted  such  a water-melon.  It  has  not  been  wilted 
by  a long,  hot  train  journey,  but  has  just  come 
from  the  field,  and  is  fresh  and  delicious. 

At  Williamsburg  we  stay  at  the  Colonial  Inn,  a 
most  pleasant  hostel,  on  old  Duke  of  Gloucester 
Street.  Williamsburg,  known  then  as  Middle 
Plantation,  was  the  settlement  to  which  the  James- 
town settlers  moved  when  they  found  Jamestown 
Island  too  damp  and  malarial  for  permanent  occu- 
pancy. It  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  Colonial 
towns  in  the  United  States.  In  Williamsburg  I 
realize  that  many  of  our  Virginia  forefathers  were 
Englishmen  of  the  aristocratic  class.  The  coats-of- 
arms  on  the  old  stones  in  the  cemetery;  the  quiet 
elegance  of  the  old  parish  church  with  its  hand- 
somely draped  governor’s  pew — all  the  marks  of 
early  days’  ceremonial  are  here.  A service  in  Bru- 
ton Parish  Church  is  an  experience,  and  it  is  also 
an  experience  to  see  the  communion  plate  of  solid 
silver  and  the  old  prayer-book  used  in  Colonial 
days.  One  can  see  for  one’s  self  the  pages  in  the 
prayer-book  where  “King  of  kings”  has  been  scored 
out  and  “Ruler  of  the  universe”  has  been  written  in 
on  the  margin.  In  this  prayer-book  the  prayer  for 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  243 


the  king  has  been  pasted  over,  a prayer  for  the  pres- 
ident having  been  written  on  the  paper  covering  the 
printed  prayer.  The  parish  register  of  the  chuj  ch 
has  many  interesting  and  amusing  entries.  In  one 
entry  twin  slaves  have  been  registered  by  their 
master  as  “Adam”  and  “Eve.” 

Miss  Estelle  Smith,  a lady  who  lives  in  a most 
interesting  old  house  on  Palace  Green,  knows  the 
history  of  Williamsburg  thoroughly,  and  is  a very 
charming  guide.  Miss  Smith’s  house,  where  a few 
paying  guests  find  gracious  hospitality,  is  known 
as  “Audrey  House.”  It  was  this  house  that  Mary 
Johnston  used  as  the  setting  for  her  heroine,  Aud- 
rey. On  one  window-pane  of  the  “Audrey  House” 
an  unknown  hand  traced  with  a diamond  long,  long 
ago  these  words:  “Nov.  23rd,  1796.  O fatal  day.” 
On  another  pane  there  is  a name  and  the  date  1734. 
Miss  Smith  says  that  no  member  of  her  family 
knows  what  the' fatal  day  was,  away  back  in  1796. 
No  tradition  or  record  of  that  unhappiness  has  de- 
scended. 

In  Bruton  church  yard,  I am  interested  to  read 
on  a family  gravestone  a special  inscription  to 
“Mammy  Sarah,  devoted  servant  of  the  family  who 
died  aged  sixty  years.” 


244  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


The  gallery  of  the  old  church  is  known  as  “Lord 
Dunsmore’s  Gallery.”  Lord  Dunsmore  retired 
here  from  the  seats  of  the  Burgesses  on  the  floor 
below,  shortly  before  the  Revolution,  not  being  in 
sympathy  with  their  revolutionary  attitude.  Later 
the  gallery  was  assigned  to  the  students  of  William 
and  Mary  College,  and  its  old  railing  is  covered 
with  their  initials,  cut  deep  into  the  wood. 

One  can  read  fine  old  names,  and  very  great 
names,  on  the  brass  tablets  which  adorn  many  of 
the  pews  and  many  wall  spaces  in  Bruton  church. 
George  Washington,  Peyton  Randolph,  Patrick 
Henry,  and  many  others.  As  we  read  them  we 
feel  that  we  are  in  a distinguished  and  patriotic 
company,  silent  and  yet  present. 

It  is  pleasant  to  wander  about  the  old  streets  of 
the  village,  shaded  by  gnarled  mulberry  trees  and 
fine  elms.  Masses  of  pink  crape  myrtle  embower 
some  of  the  old  houses,  and  waxen  leaved  magnolia 
trees  shade  the  door  yards.  At  one  end  of  the  vil- 
lage there  is  an  interesting  stone  to  mark  the  site 
of  the  old  Capitol.  We  read  that  “Here  Patrick 
Henry  first  kindled  the  flames  of  revolution  by  his 
resolutions  and  speech  against  the  Stamp  Act,  May 
29-30,  1765.”  “Here  June  12,  1776,  was  adopted 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  245 


by  the  convention  the  immortal  work  of  George 
Mason,  the  Declaration  of  Rights  and  on  June  29, 
1776  the  first  written  Constitution  of  a free  and 
independent  State  ever  framed.” 

We  drive  out  past  the  shaded  campus  of  William 
and  Mary  College  and  over  eight  miles  of  sandy 
road  through  the  forest,  to  Jamestown  Island.  We 
cross  a rickety  rustic  bridge  over  the  saltwater 
stream  which  separates  the  island  from  the  main- 
land. Driving  across  grassy  fields  we  come  to  the 
present  church,  incorporating  the  old  tower  and 
surrounding  with  its  brick  walls  the  precious  foun- 
dations of  the  early  church.  The  present  church  is 
really  a protection  for  these  low,  broken  founda- 
tions which  are  railed  off  from  the  possible  vandal- 
ism of  tourists;  and  the  repository  of  certain  old 
tombs  and  of  an  ever  increasing  number  of  memo- 
rial tablets  upon  its  brick  walls.  One  tablet  which 
pleases  me  much,  reads: 

In  honour  of  Chanco 
The  Christian  Indian  boy 
whose  warnings  saved 
The  Colony  of  Virginia  from  destruction 
In  the  Massacre  of  22  March,  1622. 


246  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


Erected  by  the  Society  of  Colonial 
Dames  of  America  in  the  State  of  Virginia. 

Another  interesting  tablet  reads: 

To  the  glory  of  God 
And  in  grateful  remembrance  of 
The  adventurers  in  England 
and 

Ancient  Planters  of  Virginia 

Who  through  evil  report  and  loss  of  fortune 
Through  suffering  and  death 
Maintained  stout  hearts 
And  laid  the  foundations  of  our  country. 

A fine  statue  of  Captain  John  Smith  stands  on 
the  greensward,  near  the  church,  looking  out  over 
the  broad  waters  of  the  James.  The  Captain  is 
represented  in  the  dress  of  his  day,  his  wide  trous- 
ers tied  with  ribbons  at  the  knee,  his  broad  boot 
tops  falling  over  in  picturesque  fashion.  On  the 
monument  is  a simple  inscription,  “Captain  John 
Smith,  governor  of  Virginia,  1608.”  A graceful 
statue  of  Pocahontas  is  to  stand  near  that  of  Cap- 
tain Smith,  facing  the  water. 

Not  far  from  the  church  and  in  an  open  posi- 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  247 
tion  stands  the  tall,  fine  granite  shaft  which  com- 
memorates the  first  settlement.  Its  main  inscrip- 
tion reads: 

Jamestown 

The  first  permanent  colony 
of  the  English  people 
The  birthplace  of  Virginia 
And  of  the  United  States 
May  13,  1607. 

Jamestown  Island  contains  1600  acres,  and  is 
some  three  miles  long.  It  is  owned  by  Mrs.  Bar- 
ney, who  lives  upon  it  and  who  conducts  a farm 
on  part  of  its  acres.  She  and  her  husband  gen- 
erously gave  the  portion  of  the  island  containing 
the  church  yard  to  the  Society  for  the  Preserva- 
tion of  the  Antiquities  of  Virginia.  It  is  less  than 
fifteen  years  since  the  restoration  and  care  of  the 
old  Jamestown  settlement  site  has  been  under- 
taken. Before  that  the  graveyard  was  neglected 
and  overgrown,  the  foundations  of  the  old  church 
were  falling  to  pieces,  and  the  whole  place  was 
utterly  forlorn  and  forsaken. 

From  Williamsbm*g  we  drive  on  to  Yorktown, 
now  a small  village.  One  short  street,  a few  old 


248  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


houses,  a shop  and  a little  inn  or  two  are  all  that 
remain  of  Yorktown.  No  railroad  reaches  it,  and 
it  is  therefore  rather  inaccessible  to  tourists.  The 
village  is  most  nobly  situated  on  a high  bluff  over- 
looking the  broad  waters  of  the  York  River,  which 
stretch  away  hke  a great  bay.  The  Yorktown  mon- 
ument, quite  as  fine  and  imposing  a shaft  as  the 
Jamestown  one,  stands  high  on  the  river  bank  in  a 
striking  and  dramatic  situation.  We  hear  a pretty 
story  of  how  the  President  of  the  United  States 
came  down  with  a party  of  gentlemen  some  months 
ago  and  walked  about  the  village.  No  one  recog- 
nized him  save  a young  girl  of  fourteen  who  volun- 
teered her  services  as  a guide,  took  the  party  about 
and  explained  to  them  the  points  of  interest.  They 
remained  with  her  nearly  two  hours.  At  the  end 
of  this  time  when  they  were  bidding  her  farewell, 
she  said,  nodding  to  the  President,  “You  are  Pres- 
ident Wilson,  are  you  not?”  We  drive  out  from 
the  village  to  an  old  farmhouse  known  as  the 
“Moore  House,”  where  terms  of  capitulation  were 
drawn  up  after  the  surrender  of  Lord  Cornwallis. 
We  go  into  the  room  where  the  terms  were  made, 
and  feel  that  we  are  really  in  the  birthplace  of  our 
great  nation. 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  249 

From  Yorktown  we  cross  by  ferry  to  Glouces- 
ter County,  for  we  purpose  to  see  something  of  the 
famous  section  known  as  Tidewater  Virginia.  As 
Tidewater  on  Chesapeake  Bay  is  a region  where 
creeks  and  inlets  make  a thousand  indentations  in 
the  coast,  the  ideal  way  to  see  it  all  would  be  by 
motor  boat.  But  our  purpose  is  to  drive  along  the 
sandy  roads  and  through  the  forests  of  Gloucester 
County  for  some  thirty  miles,  until  we  reach  the 
region  of  Mob  jack  Bay.  As  we  drive  along  we 
pass  many  negroes,  respectable  looking  people  in 
comfortable  buggies  and  light  open  wagons.  Some 
are  driving  mules,  and  others  have  very  good  horses. 
We  find  that  we  must  drive  slowly,  as  many  of  the 
animals  are  afraid  of  our  car.  We  pass  old  Abing- 
don Parish  Church,  and  stop  to  read  the  names  on 
the  tombs  with  the  coats-of-arms  in  the  church  yard. 
A little  farther  on  we  turn  down  a long  lane  and 
drive  for  a mile  and  a half  through  fields  and  trees. 
Then  we  come  through  a gate  on  to  the  green  lawn 
of  “Newstead,”  an  old  estate  where  they  are  good 
enough  to  take  a few  paying  guests.  Sheep  and 
turkeys  walk  calmly  about  on  the  grass  under  the 
shade  of  noble  oak  trees.  Before  us  are  the  blue 
waters  of  the  Bay.  We  are  on  that  particular  arm 


250  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


of  Mobjack  Bay  known  as  the  North  River.  Here 
is  the  enchanting  region  of  which  Thomas  Dixon 
Jr.,  wrote  some  twelve  years  ago  when  he  described 
his  own  home  in  a book  called  “The  Life  Worth 
Living.”  A long  motor  boat  ride  convinces  us  that 
Mr.  Dixon’s  descriptions  are  not  exaggerated. 
All  along  the  river  (which  is  really  an  arm  of  Ches- 
apeake Bay)  stand  pleasant  homes  surrounded  by 
green  lawns  and  shaded  by  fine  trees.  It  is  so  shel- 
tered here  that  one  has  the  advantages  of  the  real 
country,  as  well  as  of  the  real  sea. 

The  chestnut  oak,  the  magnolia,  the  willow  oak, 
the  crape  myrtle,  the  fig  and  the  grape  all  flourish 
luxuriantly.  The  grass  is  thick  and  green ; and  yet 
sail  boats  and  motor  boats  ride  at  anchor  at  private 
piers  and  your  man  can  dredge  your  own  oysters 
from  your  own  oyster-bed  just  in  front  of  your 
grass  and  flowers.  The  estate  of  which  Mr.  Dixon 
wrote  so  delightfully  is  only  ten  minutes  by  motor 
boat  from  “Newstead.” 

A mild  climate,  rich  vegetation,  fertile  soil,  birds 
and  flowers  and  fruits,  the  best  eating  in  the  world, 
what  more  does  Virginia  need  to  make  her  a para- 
dise on  land  and  by  sea?  Only  good  roads,  and 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  251 


then  the  motorist  will  enjoy  her  rare  charms  as 
they  have  never  yet  been  enjoyed. 

We  retrace  our  journey  through  the  thick  woods, 
past  fine  oaks  and  beeches  to  the  Yorktown  ferry. 
Crossing  again  to  Yorktown  we  drive  on  to  Old 
Point  Comfort,  taking  a little  time  to  visit  the  ex- 
tensive buildings  of  the  famous  Hampton  Institute. 
At  Old  Point  Comfort  we  take  the  boat  for  Cape 
Charles  City.  It  is  our  plan  to  drive  straight  up 
the  Maryland  Peninsula,  having  first  spent  the 
night  in  a comfortable  little  hotel  at  Cape  Charles 
City. 

It  is  a lovely  September  morning,  clear  and 
bright,  as  we  drive  north  along  bumpy  roads, 
through  beautiful  forests  of  pine  and  oak.  We  are 
in  Accomac  County,  Virginia,  on  the  southern  end 
of  what  is  called  the  Delaware-Maryland-Virginia 
Peninsula.  This  seems  to  be  a lonely  coimtry 
through  which  we  are  driving,  somewhat  sparsely 
settled.  And  yet  between  Cape  Charles  City  and 
Pocomoke  City  there  are  twenty-seven  prosperous 
banks,  they  tell  us.  And  here  in  Accomac  County 
is  harvested  five  per  cent,  of  the  entire  sweet  potato 
crop  of  the  United  States.  The  climatic  condi- 


252  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 

tions  for  fruits  and  vegetables  are  almost  perfect 
on  this  peninsula,  and  the  soil  is  extremely  fertile. 
All  this  country  is  destined  to  he  an  immense  pe- 
ninsula garden.  As  we  drive  along  we  see  great 
heaps  of  yellow  sweet  potatoes  waiting  to  be  packed 
away  in  barrels.  We  see  long  rows  of  baskets  filled 
with  scarlet  tomatoes,  stretching  down  the  fields, 
alongside  the  denuded  tomato  plants.  What  glo- 
rious color  it  is!  I should  like  to  come  here  and 
paint  a tomato  field  just  after  the  fruit  has  been 
picked,  the  whole  field  marked  by  lines  of  color. 
First  a row  of  green  tomato  plants,  somewhat  grey 
and  dusty  in  the  bright  sun;  then  a row  of  baskets 
of  scarlet  fruit  glowing  in  the  sunshine;  then  a 
stretch  of  brown  earth.  Then  another  row  of  the 
grey-green  plants  and  another  row  of  baskets  piled 
high  with  scarlet  fruit;  and  so  on  across  many  acres 
of  browns  and  greens  and  scarlets.  We  pass  im- 
mense wagon-loads  of  tomatoes  being  hauled  to  the 
canneries  and  to  the  station.  The  fruit  is  placed 
in  the  wagon  in  double  decker  fashion;  the  first 
platform  of  baskets  being  surmounted  by  a second 
platform  upon  which  the  second  rows  of  baskets 
rest.  The  wagons  are  drawn  by  sturdy  mules, 
sometimes  four  strong.  At  Pocomoke  City  we  have 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  253 

an  excellent  luncheon  at  the  little  hotel.  We  have 
crossed  the  Maryland  boundary,  and  our  route  is 
to  lead  us  through  Princess  Ann  and  Salisbury  off 
to  the  northeast  to  Easton.  The  country  is  less 
heavily  wooded  now,  but  the  soil  is  of  the  same  fer- 
tile quality,  and  the  cultivated  fields  are  beautiful 
to  see.  We  are  driving  along  the  famous  Eastern 
Shore,  where  many  people  have  their  country  seats. 
The  towns  through  which  we  are  passing,  from 
Cape  Charles  City  clear  along  the  peninsula,  show 
their  age.  They  belong  to  the  days  of  early  settle- 
ment. 

At  Easton  we  take  a day  or  two  to  drive  about 
the  open  country  and  see  the  charming  country 
estates,  the  houses  standing  on  the  shores  of  creeks 
and  inlets,  and  having  the  double  charm  of  the  coun- 
try and  the  sea,  just  as  they  do  in  Tidewater  Vir- 
ginia. We  drive  out  to  “The  Wilderness,”  the  home 
of  a Pittsburg  gentleman.  One  approaches  the  old 
brick  house  through  a long  avenue  of  trees.  The 
house  faces  on  a green  lawn  which  slopes  to  the 
waters  of  a broad  stream,  with  glimpses  in  the  dis- 
tances of  a wide  bay.  About  the  house  there  are 
broad  fields  with  rich,  fertile  soil  capable  of  high 
cultivation.  Fine  roads  run  all  through  the  coun- 


254  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


tryside  and  there  are  charming  places  on  the  creeks 
and  inlets,  each  commanding  a beautiful  water  view. 
You  may  take  your  launch  in  the  late  afternoon  if 
you  are  weary,  and  run  about  in  sheltered  water 
ways  commanding  fine  views  of  pretty  homes  set  in 
lovely  lawns  and  trees.  Or  you  may  take  a sail, 
venturing  out  from  a small  inlet  to  a wider  bay, 
and  so  on  into  the  great  open  water  of  the  Chesa- 
peake. 

I know  a green  lawn  on  a certain  inlet,  shaded 
by  luxuriant  oak  trees,  where  the  sound  of  bells 
comes  across  the  water  from  the  village  spires  of  an 
historic  old  village.  The  family  boat  is  just  be- 
hind the  house,  rocking  gently  on  the  waters  of  a 
little  stream,  which  runs  up  from  the  larger  stream 
into  the  mainland.  The  situation  is  ideal. 

We  drive  about  Talbot  County  and  on  into  Prin- 
cess Ann  County.  Everywhere  we  find  the  same 
fertile,  level  fields,  the  same  water  ways  with  their 
lovely  glimpses  of  broader  water  beyond.  Where 
could  one  wish  for  a better  luncheon  than  the  one 
served  us  at  an  unpretentious  little  inn  called 
Queen  Cottage,  in  the  old  village  of  Queenstown? 
Delicious  oyster  soup,  the  oysters  just  out  of  the 
water,  an  omelet  that  would  have  done  justice  to  a 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  255 


French  chef,  candied  sweet  potatoes  cooked  as  only 
a Southern  cook  knows  how,  fresh  peas,  hot  bis- 
cuits, excellent  coffee,  and  the  pink  heart  of  a cool, 
unwilted  watermelon;  and  all  for  a most  reasonable 
sum.  Queen  Cottage  would  be  a sweet  spot  in 
which  to  spend  a little  time  of  retreat,  bountifully 
fed  and  free  to  wander  about  quiet  streets  and  fer- 
tile open  country. 

We  pass,  in  driving  about,  the  largest  oak  tree  in 
the  county,  standing  in  the  door  yard  of  a country 
place,  and  carefully  preserved  and  watched  over. 
Perhaps  I should  say  watched  under,  as  it  is  an  im- 
mense green  tent  of  huge  spreading  branches,  each 
one  a tree  in  itself  in  its  girth  and  diameter. 

From  Easton  we  drive  north  and  northwest  to 
Wilmington  over  fine  roads.  The  State  of  Mary- 
land is  improving  her  roads  and  will  in  a few  years 
have  highways  that  will  be  among  the  finest  in  the 
country,  while  her  scenery  is  that  of  a smiling  coun- 
try becoming  more  and  more  cultivated.  On  from 
Wilmington  to  Philadelphia  and  from  Philadelphia 
out  to  Byrn  Mawr ; and  from  the  parked  and  shaded 
beauty  of  Byrn  Mawr  over  the  rolling  farming 
country  of  Pennsylvania  with  its  beautiful  culti- 
vation and  its  substantial  stone  farmhouses,  up 


256  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


through  Trenton  and  Newark  and  across  the  ferry 
to  New  York.  We  are  once  more  on  the  Lincoln 
Highway  as  we  travel  northeast  from  Philadelphia. 
It  is  a joy  to  travel  again  by  the  familiar  red,  white, 
and  blue  signs.  We  know  the  pleasant  open  coun- 
try of  New  Jersey  through  which  the  noble  High- 
way runs  for  these  last  miles,  and  are  at  last  At 
Home. 


BJ  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  257 


CHAPTER  XIII 

The  Lincoln  Highway  is  destined  to  be  a much- 
traveled  road.  Already  the  motorists  of  the  West 
are  turning  the  hoods  of  their  motor  cars  to  face 
the  East  and  the  motorists  of  the  East  are  starting 
Westward.  Happy  is  the  man  who  has  his  hotel  or 
inn  situated  on  the  road  marked  by  the  red,  white, 
and  blue.  The  traveler  is  bound  to  come  his  way, 
and  the  traveler  is  bound  to  alight  at  his  door  if 
only  he  has  something  to  offer  that  is  worthy  of 
the  name  of  hospitality.  But  he  can  no  longer 
afford  to  be  careless.  There  is  an  unwritten  rule 
of  the  open  road  which  reads  that  the  traveler  shall 
tell  his  fellow  traveler  of  places  at  which  to  halt  and 
of  places  to  avoid.  It  is  inevitable  that  in  the  course 
of  a short  time  the  slovenly  and  careless  inn-keeper 
must  be  supplanted  by  a better  man. 


258  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


The  tourist  does  not  enjoy  looking  out  of  his 
hotel  window  on  piles  of  old  tin  cans  and  heaps  of 
barrel  staves  and  discarded  packing  boxes.  Nor 
does  he  enjoy  looking  at  mounds  of  ashes,  and 
quantities  of  vegetable  parings.  He  will  not  long 
endure  a soiled  table  cloth,  horrible  green  tea,  and 
indiiferently  cooked  food.  Nor  will  he  endure  a 
lack  of  hot  water  and  utterly  careless  sanitary  ar- 
rangements. He  may  say  little  about  them  to  the 
landlord  who  entertains  his  party,  but  he  will  very 
soon  see  to  it  that  better  inns  take  the  place  of  the 
old  ones  of  careless  and  indifferent  management. 
The  hotel  keeper  congratulates  himself  that  his 
open  door  looks  out  on  the  Lincoln  Highway,  and 
that  his  own  sign  proudly  bears  the  three  distin- 
guishing bars  of  red,  white,  and  blue.  He  must  have 
more  than  this  to  make  his  inn  a success.  It  is  sur- 
prising how  fast  the  news  of  a clean,  well  kept  inn, 
with  excellently  cooked  food,  travels  from  mouth 
to  mouth. 

In  France  there  is  a roll  of  honour  for  inn-keep- 
ers under  the  direction,  if  I mistake  not,  of  the 
Touring  Club  of  France.  Only  those  inn-keepers 
whose  houses  and  whose  tables  attain  a certain 
standard,  not  of  style  but  of  simple  cleanliness  and 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  259 


of  wholesome  excellence  of  food,  are  admitted  to 
this  company.  I have  seen  the  certificate  of  the 
roll  of  honour  hanging  on  the  walls  of  more  than 
one  country  inn  in  France. 

It  is  to  the  credit  of  the  many  places  in  which 
we  halted  for  the  night  that  in  only  one  did  we  find 
conditions  impossible.  We  slept  in  a rather  indif- 
ferent bed-chamber,  having  reached  the  inn  late. 
But  when  we  saw  the  dining-room  the  following 
morning,  we  paid  our  bill  and  fled;  driving  on 
twenty  miles  farther  for  a late  breakfast.  Surely 
the  average  commercial  man  of  the  United  States 
who  travels  in  country  districts  year  in  and  year 
out  must  have  a charmed  digestion  and  an  iron-clad 
constitution.  He  may  well  rejoice  that  the  days 
of  motoring  have  come,  for  with  the  motorist  is 
coming  ilot  only  the  broad  Highway,  but  the  clean 
and  comfortable  inn.  Not  necessarily  the  fash- 
ionable hotel,  with  its  expensive  and  extravagant 
accessories ; but  the  clean,  immaculately  kept  coun- 
try inn,  with  its  excellent  cooking  of  the  abundant 
food  in  which  our  country  is  so  rich.  Perhaps  we 
shall  need  to  import  some  Swiss  inn-keeper  to  tell 
us  how  to  do  it.  Whether  we  do  or  do  not,  the  man 
who  knows  how  and  the  man  who  is  willing  to  live 


260  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


up  to  his  knowledge  will  inevitably  displace  the  inn- 
keeper who  is  careless  and  indifferent.  The  big- 
gest bid  for  a motor  tourist  is  a clean  bed-chamber, 
a comfortable  bed,  and  a well  cooked  though  simple 
dinner. 

If  I were  crossing  the  Lincoln  Highway  again  I 
should  take  with  me  a spirit  lamp,  a little  sauce  pan, 
some  boxes  of  biscuits,  some  excellent  tea,  some  co- 
coa and  other  supplies.  Not  that  this  is  a necessity. 
But  it  would  be  very  pleasant  to  have  a luncheon 
or  a cup  of  afternoon  tea  al  fresco,  now  and  then. 

For  our  own  comfort  and  convenience  we  laid 
down  for  ourselves  certain  rules  of  the  road. 

First:  We  did  not  wear  our  good  clothes.  The 
long,  dusty  journeys  are  very  hard  upon  clothing, 
and  for  a lady  a comfortable  light  weight  tweed 
suit  with  plenty  of  washable  blouses  with  rolling 
collars,  covered  by  an  ample  motor  coat,  gives  the 
greatest  comfort  and  satisfaction.  The  dust  of  the 
plains  is  ground  into  one’s  clothing  and  one  should 
be  ready  for  this.  The  requirements  of  the  hotels 
along  the  road  are  very  simple,  and  a fresh  blouse 
will  usually  be  all  that  is  needed.  We  took  care  to 
use  only  such  dust  robes  to  cover  our  luggage  as 
could  not  be  injured  by  the  wear  and  tear  of  the 


BY  THE  LINCOLN  HIGHWAY  261 


journey.  We  did  not  take  with  us  our  best  rugs 
and  robes. 

Second : We  did  not  travel  by  night.  We  found 
it  very  delightful  to  travel  in  the  late  afternoon, 
when  the  lights  were  particularly  fine,  but  we 
avoided  as  much  as  possible  traveling  late  into  the 
evening.  In  this  way  one  does  not  miss  the  scenery 
of  the  country,  and  one  is  not  over  fatigued.  We 
found  that  when  we  were  obliged  to  arrive  late  at 
om*  inn,  it  was  wiser  to  eat  supper  at  the  proper 
supper  hour  wherever  that  might  find  us. 

Third:  We  did  not  as  a rule  travel  on  Sunday. 
Partly  because  we  wished  to  attend  church  in  what- 
ever town  we  might  be,  partly  because  we  found 
ourselves  fresher  for  enjoyment  and  sight-seeing 
after  the  rest  and  quiet  of  a day. 

Fourth:  We  resolved  at  the  outset  to  take  the 
days  and  the  roads  as  they  came;  not  looking  for 
luxury  and  well  satified  with  simplicity.  It  is  sur- 
prising how  one  is  fortified  for  the  vicissitudes  of 
the  road  by  such  a deliberate  attitude  of  mind. 

The  Lincoln  Highway  is  not  as  yet  a road  for 
those  motorists  who  wish  only  luxurious  hotels,  fre- 
quent stops,  and  all  the  cushioned  comfort  of  the 
much-traveled  main  roads  of  the  favorite  tourist 


262  ACROSS  THE  CONTINENT 


parts  of  Europe.  It  is,  however,  perfectly  practi- 
cable in  its  entire  length  of  3200  miles,  and  rich  in 
interest  and  charm  for  those  who  care  for  what  it 
has  to  give. 

We  drove  a Studebaker  car  as  far  as  Denver  and 
a Franklin  car  from  Denver  to  New  York.  In  all 
the  distance  traversed  we  were  not  conscious  of 
braving  any  dangers  or  of  taking  any  particular 
risks. 

The  End. 


3v/ 


' -s 


'S 


UNIVERSITY  OF  ILUNOIS-URBANA 


